NRLF 


THESE  TWAIN 


BY 

ARNOLD   BENNETT 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  WIVES'  *TALE,"  "THE  OLD  ADAM, 
"CLAYHANGER,"  "HILDA  LESSWAYS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915, 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  HOUSE 1 

II.     HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS 14 

III.  ATTACK  AND  REPULSE 25 

IV.  THE   WORD e                          .  46 

V.     TERTIUS  INGPEN 56 

VI.     HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 79 

VII.     THE   TRUCE 87 

VIII.     THE    FAMILY    AT    HOME 99 

IX.     THE  WEEK-END 138 

X.    THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  187 


BOOK  II 

THE  PAST 

XI.    LITHOGRAPHY            221 

XII.     DARTMOOR 242 

XIII.  THE  DEPARTURE 254 

XIV.  TAVY  MANSION 267 

XV.    THE  PRISON 293 

XVI.    THE  GHOST                                                                            ,  319 


vi  CONTENTS 


BOOK  III 

EQUILIBRIUM 

CHAFTEB  PACK 

XVII.    GEORGE'S  EYES .  .    355 

XVIII.    AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED ,    403 

XIX.    DEATH  AND  BURIAL 434 

XX.     THE  DISCOVERY                                                .        .  .475 


BOOK  I 
THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  HOUSE 


THESE  TWAIN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HOUSE 


IN  the  year  1892  Bleafcridge,  residential  suburb  of 
Bursley,  was  still  most  plainly  divided  into  old  and 
new, — that  is  to  say,  into  the  dull  red  or  dull  yellow 
with  stone  facings,  and  the  bright  red  with  terra  cotta 
gimcrackery.  Like  incompatible  liquids  congealed  in 
a  pot,  the  two  components  had  run  into  each  other 
and  mingled,  but  never  mixed. 

Paramount  among  the  old  was  the  house  of  the  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  near  the  top  of  the  important 
mound  that  separates  Hanbridge  from  Bursley.  The 
aged  and  widowed  Member  used  the  house  little,  but  he 
kept  it  up,  and  sometimes  came  into  it  with  an  unex- 
pectedness that  extremely  flattered  the  suburb.  Thus 
you  might  be  reading  in  the  morning  paper  that  the 
Member  had  given  a  lunch  in  London  on  the  previous 
day  to  Cabinet  Ministers  and  ladies  as  splendid  as  the 
Countess  of  Chell,  and — glancing  out  of  the  window — 
you  might  see  the  Member  himself  walking  down 
Trafalgar  Road,  sad,  fragile,  sedately  alert,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  or  waving  a  gracious  hand  to  an 
acquaintance.  Whereupon  you  would  announce,  not 
apathetically :  "Member's  gone  down  to  Macllvaine's !" 

1 


:TH£SE  TWAIN 

's  being  hhe-'  works  in  which  the  Member 
had  an  interest)  and  there  would  perhaps  be  a  rush 
to  the  window.  Those  were  the  last  great  days  of 
Bleakridge. 

After  the  Member's  house  ranked  such  historic  resi- 
dences as  those  of  Osmond  Orgreave,  the  architect, 
(which  had  the  largest,  greenest  garden  and  the  best 
smoke-defying  trees  in  Bleakridge),  and  Fearns,  the 
Hanbridge  lawyer;  together  with  Manor  "Cottage" 
(so-called,  though  a  spacious  house),  where  lived  the 
mechanical  genius  who  had  revolutionised  the  pottery 
industry  and  strangely  enough  made  a  fortune  thereby, 
and  the  dark  abode  of  the  High  Church  parson. 

Next  in  importance  came  the  three  terraces, — Manor 
Terrace,  Abbey  Terrace,  and  the  Sneyd  Terrace — each 
consisting  of  three  or  four  houses,  and  all  on  the  west 
side  of  Trafalgar  Road,  with  long  back-gardens  and  a 
distant  prospect  of  Hillport  therefrom  over  the  Manor 
fields.  The  Terraces,  considered  as  architecture,  were 
unbeautiful,  old-fashioned,  inconvenient, — perhaps  pal- 
try, as  may  be  judged  from  the  fact  that  rents  ran 
as  low  as  £25  a  year;  but  they  had  been  wondrous  in 
their  day,  the  pride  of  builders  and  owners  and  the 
marvel  of  a  barbaric  populace.  They  too  had  his- 
tories, which  many  people  knew.  Age  had  softened 
them  and  sanctioned  their  dignity.  A  gate  might  creak, 
but  the  harsh  curves  of  its  ironwork  had  been  mollified 
by  time.  Moreover  the  property  was  always  maintained 
in  excellent  repair  by  its  landlords,  and  residents  cared 
passionately  for  the  appearance  of  the  windows  and  the 
front-steps.  The  plenary  respectability  of  the  resi- 
dents could  not  be  impugned.  They  were  as  good  as 
the  best.  For  address,  they  would  not  give  the  num- 
ber of  the  house  in  Trafalgar  Road,  but  the  name  of 
its  Terrace.  Just  as  much  as  the  occupiers  of  de- 


THE  HOUSE  3 

tached  houses,  they  had  sorted  themselves  out  from 
the  horde.  Conservative  or  Liberal,  they  were  anti- 
democratic, ever  murmuring  to  themselves  as  they  de- 
scended the  front-steps  in  the  morning  and  mounted 
them  in  the  evening:  "Most  folks  are  nobodies,  but  I 
am  somebody."  And  this  was  true. 

The  still  smaller  old  houses  in  between  the  Ter- 
races, and  even  the  old  cottages  in  the  side  streets 
(which  all  ran  to  the  east)  had  a  similar  distinction  of 
caste,  aloofness,  and  tradition.  The  least  of  them  was 
scornful  of  the  crowd,  and  deeply  conscious  of  itself 
as  a  separate  individuality.  When  the  tenant-owner  of 
a  cottage  in  Manor  Street  added  a  bay-window  to  his 
front-room  the  event  seemed  enormous  in  Manor  Street, 
an4  affected  even  Trafalgar  Road,  as  a  notorious  clean- 
shaven figure  in  the  streets  may  disconcert  a  whole 
quarter  by  growing  a  beard.  The  congeries  of  cottage 
yards  between  Manor  Street  and  Higginbotham  Street, 
as  visible  from  certain  high  back-bedrooms  in  Trafal- 
gar Road, — a  crowded  higgledy-piggledy  of  plum-col- 
oured walls  and  chimneys,  blue-brick  pavements,  and 
slate  roofs — well  illustrated  the  grand  Victorian  epoch 
of  the  Building  Society,  when  eighteenpence  was  added 
weekly  to  eighteenpence,  and  land  haggled  over  by  the 
foot,  and  every  brick  counted,  in  the  grim,  long  effort 
to  break  away  from  the  mass. 

The  traditionalism  of  Bleakridge  protected  even 
Roman  Catholicism  in  that  district  of  Nonconformity, 
where  there  were  at  least  three  Methodist  chapels  to 
every  church  and  where  the  adjective  "popish"  was 
commonly  used  in  preference  to  "papal."  The  little 
"Catholic  Chapel"  and  the  priest's  house  with  its  cross- 
keys  at  the  top  of  the  mound  were  as  respected  as  any 
other  buildings,  because  Roman  Catholicism  had  always 
been  endemic  there,  since  the  age  when  the  entire  ham- 


4  THESE  TWAIN 

let  belonged  to  Cistercian  monks  in  white  robes.  A 
feebly  endemic  Catholicism  and  a  complete  exemption 
from  tithes  w?re  all  that  remained  of  the  Cistercian  oc- 
cupation. The  exemption  was  highly  esteemed  by  the 
possessing  class. 

Alderman  Sutton,  towards  the  end  of  the  seventies, 
first  pitted  the  new  against  the  old  in  Bleakridge.  The 
lifelong  secretary  of  a  first-class  Building  Society,  he 
was  responsible  for  a  terrace  of  three  commodious  mod- 
ern residences  exactly  opposite  the  house  of  the  Mem- 
ber. The  Member  and  Osmond  Orgreave  might  mod- 
ernise their  antique  houses  as  much  as  they  liked, — they 
could  never  match  the  modernity  of  the  Alderman's 
Terrace,  to  which,  by  the  way,  he  declined  to  give  a 
name.  He  was  capable  of  covering  his  drawing-room 
walls  with  papers  at  three-and-six  a  roll,  and  yet  he 
capriciously  preferred  numbers  to  a  name!  These 
houses  cost  twelve  hundred  pounds  each  (a  lot  of  money 
in  the  happy  far-off  days  when  good  bricks  were  only 
£1  a  thousand,  or  a  farthing  apiece),  and  imposed 
themselves  at  once  upon  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
Bleakridge.  A  year  or  two  later  the  Clayhanger  house 
went  up  at  the  corner  of  Trafalgar  Road  and  Hulton 
Street,  and  easily  outvied  the  Sutton  houses.  Geo- 
graphically at  the  centre  of  the  residential  suburb,  it 
represented  the  new  movement  in  Bleakridge  at  its 
apogee,  and  indeed  was  never  beaten  by  later  ambitious 
attempts. 

Such  fine  erections,  though  nearly  every  detail  of 
them  challenged  tradition,  could  not  disturb  Bleak- 
ridge's  belief  in  the  stability  of  society.  But  simul- 
taneously whole  streets  of  cheap  small  houses  (in  real- 
ity, pretentious  cottages)  rose  round  about.  Hul- 
ton Street  was  all  new  and  cheap.  Oak  Street  offered 
a  row  of  pink  cottages  to  Osmond  Orgreave's  garden- 


THE  HOUSE  5 

gates,  and  there  were  three  other  similar  new  streets 
between  Oak  Street  and  the  Catholic  Chapel.  Jerry- 
building  was  practised  in  Trafalgar  Road  itself,  on  a 
large  plot  in  full  view  of  the  Catholic  Chapel,  where  a 
speculative  builder,  too  hurried  to  use  a  measure, 
"stepped  out"  the  foundations  of  fifteen  cottages  with 
his  own  bandy  legs,  and  when  the  corner  of  a  freshly- 
constructed  cottage  fell  into  the  street  remarked  that 
accidents  would  happen  and  had  the  bricks  replaced. 
But  not  every  cottage  was  jerry-built.  Many,  perhaps 
most,  were  of  fairly  honest  workmanship.  All  were 
modern,  and  relatively  spacious,  and  much  superior  in 
plan  to  the  old.  All  had  bay-windows.  And  yet  all 
their  bay-windows  together  could  not  produce  an  ef- 
fect equal  to  one  bay-window  in  ancient  Manor  Street, 
because  they  had  omitted  to  be  individual.  Not  one 
showy  dwelling  was  unlike  another,  nor  desired  to  be 
unlike  another. 

The  garish  new  streets  were  tenanted  by  magic.  On 
Tuesday  the  paperhangers  might  be  whistling  in  those 
drawing-rooms  (called  parlours  in  Manor  Street), — 
on  Wednesday  bay-windows  were  curtained  and  chim- 
neys smoking.  And  just  as  the  cottages  lacked  indi- 
viduality, so  the  tenants  were  nobodies.  At  any  rate 
no  traditional  person  in  Bleakridge  knew  who  they 
were,  nor  where  they  came  from,  except  that  they 
came  mysteriously  up  out  of  the  town.  (Not  that 
there  had  been  any  shocking  increase  in  the  birthrate 
down  there!)  And  no  traditional  person  seemed  to 
care.  The  strange  inroad  and  portent  ought  to  have 
puzzled  and  possibly  to  have  intimidated  traditional 
Bleakridge:  but  it  did  not.  Bleakridge  merely  ob- 
served that  "a  lot  of  building  was  going  on,"  and  left 
the  phenomenon  at  that.  At  first  it  was  interested  and 
flattered ;  then  somewhat  resentful  and  regretful.  And 


6  THESE  TWAIN 

even  Edwin  Clayhanger,  though  he  counted  himself 
among  the  enlightened  and  the  truly  democratic,  felt 
hurt  when  quite  nice  houses,  copying  some  features  of 
his  own  on  a  small  scale,  and  let  to  such  people  as  in- 
surance agents,  began  to  fill  up  the  remaining  empty 
spaces  of  Trafalgar  Road.  He  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  the  prestige  of  Bleakridge  was  being  impaired. 


Edwin  Clayhanger,  though  very  young  in  marriage, 
considered  that  he  was  getting  on  in  years  as  a  house- 
holder. His  age  was  thirty-six.  He  had  been  mar- 
ried only  a  few  months,  under  peculiar  circumstances 
which  rendered  him  self-conscious,  and  on  an  evening 
of  August  1892,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  of  his  house 
awaiting  the  commencement  of  a  postponed  and  un- 
usual At  Home,  he  felt  absurdly  nervous.  But  the  ner- 
vousness was  not  painful;  because  he  himself  could 
laugh  at  it.  He  might  be  timid,  he  might  be  a  little 
gawky,  he  might  often  have  the  curious  sensation  of 
not  being  really  adult  but  only  a  boy  after  all, — the 
great  impressive  facts  would  always  emerge  that  he 
was  the  respected  head  of  a  well-known  family,  that  he 
was  successful,  that  he  had  both  ideas  and  money,  and 
that  his  position  as  one  of  the  two  chief  master-printers 
of  the  district  would  not  be  challenged.  He  knew  that 
he  could  afford  to  be  nervous.  And  further,  since  he 
was  house-proud,  he  had  merely  to  glance  round  his 
house  in  order  to  be  reassured  and  puffed  up. 

Loitering  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  discreetly  styl- 
ish in  an  almost  new  blue  serge  suit  and  a  quite  new 
black  satin  tie,  with  the  light  of  the  gas  on  one 
side  of  his  face,  and  the  twilight  through  the  glazed 
front-door  mitigating  the  shadow  on  the  other,  Ed- 


THE  HOUSE  7 

win  mused  pleasingly  upon  the  whole  organism  of 
his  home.  Externally,  the  woodwork  and  metalwork 
of  the  house  had  just  been  repainted,  and  the  brick- 
work pointed.  He  took  pleasure  in  the  thought  of 
the  long  even  lines  of  fresh  mortar,  and  of  the  new 
sage-tinted  spoutings  and  pipings,  every  foot  of  which 
he  knew  by  heart  and  where  every  tube  began  and 
where  it  ended  and  what  its  purpose  was.  The  nice 
fitting  of  a  perpendicular  spout  into  a  horizontal  one, 
and  the  curve  of  the  joint  from  the  eave  to  the  wall  of 
the  house,  and  the  elaborate  staples  that  firmly  held 
the  spout  to  the  wall,  and  the  final  curve  of  the  spout 
that  brought  its  orifice  accurately  over  a  spotless  grid 
in  the  ground, — the  perfection  of  all  these  ridiculous 
details,  each  beneath  the  notice  of  a  truly  celestial  mind, 
would  put  the  householder  Edwin  into  a  sort  of  con- 
templative ecstasy.  Perhaps  he  was  comical.  But 
such  inner  experiences  were  part  of  his  great  interest 
in  life,  part  of  his  large  general  passion. 

Within  the  hall  he  regarded  with  equal  interest  and 
pride  the  photogravure  of  Bellini's  "Agony  in  the  Gar- 
den," from  the  National  Gallery,  and  the  radiator 
which  he  had  just  had  installed.  The  radiator  was 
only  a  half-measure,  but  it  was  his  precious  toy,  his  pet 
lamb,  his  mistress;  and  the  theory  of  it  was  that  by 
warming  the  hall  and  the  well  of  the  staircase  it  softly 
influenced  the  whole  house  and  abolished  draughts.  He 
had  exaggerated  the  chilliness  of  the  late  August  night 
so  that  he  might  put  the  radiator  into  action.  About 
the  small  furnace  in  the  cellar  that  heated  it  he  was 
both  crotchetty  and  extravagant.  The  costly  efficiency 
of  the  radiator  somewhat  atoned  in  his  mind  for  the 
imperfections  of  the  hot  water  apparatus,  depending  on 
the  kitchen  boiler.  Even  in  1892  this  middle-class  pio- 
neer and  sensualist  was  dreaming  of  an  ideal  house  in 


•x 
8  THESE  TWAIN 

which  inexhaustible  water  was  always  positively  steam- 
ing, so  that  if  a  succession  of  persons  should  capri- 
ciously desire  hot  baths  in  the  cold  middle  of  the  night, 
their  collective  fancy  might  be  satisfied. 

Bellini's  picture  was  the  symbol  of  an  artistic  revolu- 
tion in  Edwin.  He  had  read  somewhere  that  it  was 
"perhaps  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world."  A  critic's 
exhortation  to  "observe  the  loving  realistic  passion 
shown  in  the  foreshortening  of  the  figure  of  the  sleep- 
ing apostle"  had  remained  in  his  mind;  and,  thrilled, 
he  would  point  out  this  feature  of  the  picture 
alike  to  the  comprehending  and  the  uncomprehend- 
ing. The  hanging-up  of  the  Bellini,  in  its  strange  frame 
of  stained  unpolished  oak,  had  been  an  epochal  event, 
closing  one  era  and  inaugurating  another.  And 
yet,  before  the  event,  he  had  not  even  noticed  the 
picture  on  a  visit  to  the  National  Gallery!  A 
hint,  a  phrase  murmured  in  the  right  tone  in  a  peri- 
odical, a  glimpse  of  an  illustration, — and  the  mighty 
magic  seed  was  sown.  In  a  few  months  all  Vic- 
torian phenomena  had  been  put  upon  their  trial,  and 
most  of  them  condemned.  And  condemned  without  even 
the  forms  of  justice!  Half  a  word  (in  the  right  tone) 
might  ruin  any  of  them.  Thus  was  Sir  Frederick  Leigh- 
ton,  P.  R.  A.,  himself  overthrown.  One  day  his  "Bath 
of  Psyche"  reigned  in  Edwin's  bedroom,  and  the  next 
it  had  gone,  and  none  knew  why.  But  certain  aged 
Victorians,  such  as  Edwin's  Auntie  Hamps,  took  the 
disappearance  of  the  licentious  engraving  as  a  sign 
that  the  beloved  queer  Edwin  was  at  last  coming  to  his 
senses — as,  of  course,  they  knew  he  ultimately  would. 
He  did  not  and  could  not  explain.  More  and  more  he 
was  growing  to  look  upon  his  house  as  an  island,  cut 
off  by  a  difference  of  manners  from  the  varnished  bar- 
barism of  multitudinous  new  cottages,  and  by  an  im- 


THE  HOUSE  9 

mensely  more  profound  difference  of  thought  from  both 
the  cottages  and  the  larger  houses.  It  seemed  astound- 
ing to  Edwin  that  modes  of  thought  so  violently  sepa- 
rative as  his  and  theirs  could  exist  so  close  together  and 
under  such  appearances  of  similarity.  Not  even  all  the 
younger  members  of  the  Orgreave  family,  who  counted 
as  his  nearest  friends,  were  esteemed  by  Edwin  to  be 
meet  for  his  complete  candour. 

The  unique  island  was  scarcely  a  dozen  years  old,  but 
historical  occurrences  had  aged  it  for  Edwin.  He  had 
opened  the  doors  of  all  three  reception-rooms,  partly 
to  extend  the  benign  sway  of  the  radiator,  and  partly 
so  that  he  might  judge  the  total  effect  of  the  illuminated 
chambers  and  improve  that  effect  if  possible.  And 
each  room  bore  the  mysterious  imprints  of  past  emo- 
tion. 

In  the  drawing-room,  with  its  new  orange-coloured 
gas-globes  that  gilded  everything  beneath  them,  Ed- 
win's father  used  to  sit  on  Sunday  evenings,  alone. 
And  one  Sunday  evening,  when  Edwin,  entering,  had 
first  mentioned  to  his  father  a  woman's  name,  his 
father  had  most  terribly  humiliated  him.  But  now 
it  seemed  as  if  some  other  youth,  and  not  Edwin,  had 
been  humiliated,  so  completely  was  the  wound 
healed.  .  .  .  And  he  could  remember  leaning  in  the 
doorway  of  the  drawing-room  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  his  sister  Clara  was  seated  at  the  piano,  and 
his  sister  Maggie,  nursing  a  baby  of  Clara's,  by  her 
side,  and  they  were  singing  Balfe's  duet  "Excelsior," 
and  his  father  stood  behind  them,  crying,  crying  stead- 
ily, until  at  length  the  bitter  old  man  lost  control  of 
himself  and  sobbed  aloud  under  the  emotional  stress 
of  the  women's  voices,  and  Clara  cheerfully  upbraided 
him  for  foolishness;  and  Edwin  had  walked  suddenly 
away.  This  memory  was  somehow  far  more  poignant 


10  THESE  TWAIN 

than  the  memory  of  his  humiliation.  .  .  .  And  in  the 
drawing-room  too  he  had  finally  betrothed  himself  to 
Hilda.  That  by  comparison  was  only  yesterday;  yet 
it  was  historical  and  distant.  He  was  wearing  his 
dressing-gown,  being  convalescent  from  influenza;  he 
could  distinctly  recall  the  feel  of  his  dressing-gown; 
and  Hilda  came  in — over  her  face  was  a  veil.  .  .  . 

The  dining-room,  whose  large  glistening  table  was 
now  covered  with  the  most  varied  and  modern  "refresh- 
ments" for  the  At  Home,  had  witnessed  no  event  spe- 
cially dramatic,  but  it  had  witnessed  hundreds  of  mo- 
notonous tragic  meals  at  which  the  progress  of  his 
father's  mental  malady  and  the  approach  of  his  death 
could  be  measured  by  the  old  man's  increasing  disability 
to  distinguish  between  his  knife  and  his  fork;  it  had 
seen  Darius  Clayhanger  fed  like  a  baby.  And  it  had 
never  been  the  same  dining-room  since.  Edwin  might 
transform  it,  re-paper  it,  re-furnish  it, — the  mysterious 
imprint  remained.  .  .  . 

And  then  there  was  the  little  "breakfast-room,"  in- 
serted into  the  plan  of  the  house  between  the  hall  and 
the  kitchen.  Nothing  had  happened  there,  because  the 
life  of  the  household  had  never  adjusted  itself  to  the 
new,  borrowed  convention  of  the  "breakfast-room." 
Nothing?  But  the  most  sensational  thing  had  hap- 
pened there !  When  with  an  exquisite  passing  timidity 
she  took  possession  of  Edwin's  house  as  his  wife,  Hilda 
had  had  a  sudden  gust  of  audacity  in  the  breakfast- 
room.  A  mature  woman  (with  a  boy  aged  ten  to  prove 
it),  she  had  effervesced  into  the  nai've  gestures  of  a 
young  girl  who  has  inherited  a  boudoir.  "This  shall 
be  my  very  own  room,  and  I  shall  arrange  it  just  how  I 
like,  without  asking  you  about  anything.  And  it  will 
be  my  very  own."  She  had  not  offered  an  idea ;  she 
had  announced  a  decision.  Edwin  had  had  other  no- 


THE  HOUSE  11 

tions  for  the  room,  but  he  perceived  that  he  must  bury 
them  in  eternal  silence,  and  yield  eagerly  to  this  caprice. 
Thus  to  acquiesce  had  given  him  deep  and  strange  joy. 
He  was  startled,  perhaps,  to  discover  that  he  had 
brought  into  his  house — not  a  woman,  but  a  tripartite 
creature — woman,  child,  and  sibyl.  Neither  Maggie 
nor  Clara,  nor  Janet  Orgreave,  nor  even  Hilda  before 
she  became  his  wife,  had  ever  aroused  in  him  the  least 
suspicion  that  a  woman  might  be  a  tripartite  creature. 
He  was  married,  certainly — nobody  could  be  more  le- 
gally and  respectably  married  than  was  he — but  the 
mere  marriage  seemed  naught  in  comparison  with  the 
enormous  fact  that  he  had  got  this  unexampled  crea- 
ture in  his  house  and  was  living  with  her,  she  at  his 
mercy,  and  he  at  hers.  Enchanting  escapade !  Solemn 
doom !  .  .  .  By  the  way,  she  had  yet  done  nothing  with 
the  breakfast-room.  Yes,  she  had  stolen  a  "cabinet" 
gold  frame  from  the  shop,  and  put  his  photograph  into 
it,  and  stuck  his  picture  on  the  mantelpiece;  but  that 
was  all.  She  would  not  permit  him  to  worry  her  about 
her  secret  designs  for  thejbreakfast-room.  The  break- 
fast-room was  her  affair.  Indeed  the  whole  house  was 
her  affair.  It  was  no  longer  his  house,  in  which  he 
could  issue  orders  without  considering  another  individu- 
ality— orders  that  would  infallibly  be  executed,  either 
cheerfully  or  glumly,  by  the  plump  spinster,  Maggie. 
He  had  to  mind  his  p's  and  q's;  he  had  to  be  wary, 
everywhere.  The  creature  did  not  simply  live  in  the 
house;  she  pervaded  it.  As  soon  as  he  opened  the 
front-door  he  felt  her. 


ra 

She  was  now  upstairs  in  their  joint  bedroom,  dress- 
ing for  the  At  Home.    All  day  he  had  feared  she  might 


12  THESE  TWAIN 

be  late,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  hall-clock  he  saw  that 
the  risk  was  getting  acute. 

Before  the  domestic  rearrangements  preceding  the 
marriage  had  been  fully  discussed,  he  had  assumed, 
and  Maggie  and  Clara  had  assumed,  and  Auntie  Hamps 
had  absolutely  assumed,  that  the  husband  and  wife 
would  occupy  the  long  empty  bedroom  of  old 
Darius,  because  it  was  two-foot-six  broader  than 
Edwin's,  and  because  it  was  the  "principal"  bedroom. 
But  Hilda  had  said  No  to  him  privately.  Where- 
upon, being  himself  almost  morbidly  unsentimental, 
he  had  judiciously  hinted  that  to  object  to  a  room 
because  an  old  man  had  died  in  it  under  distressing 
circumstances  was  to  be  morbidly  sentimental  and  un- 
worthy of  her.  Whereupon  she  had  mysteriously 
smiled,  and  called  him  sweet  bad  names,  and  kissed  him, 
and  hung  on  his  neck.  She  sentimental!  Could  not 
the  great  stupid  see  without  being  told  that  what  in- 
fluenced her  was  not  an  aversion  for  his  father's  bed- 
room, but  a  predilection  for  Edwin's.  She  desired  that 
they  should  inhabit  his  room.  She  wanted  to  sleep  in 
his  room;  and  to  wake  up  in  it,  and  to  feel  that  she 
was  immersing  herself  in  his  past.  .  .  .  (Ah !  The  ex- 
citing flattery,  like  an  aphrodisiac !)  And  she  would 
not  allow  him  to  uproot  the  fixed  bookcases  on  either 
side  of  the  hearth.  She  said  that  for  her  they  were 
part  of  the  room  itself.  Useless  to  argue  that  they 
occupied  space  required  for  extra  furniture!  She 
would  manage !  She  did  manage.  He  found  that  the 
acme  of  convenience  for  a  husband  had  not  been 
achieved,  but  convenience  was  naught  in  the  rapture  of 
the  escapade.  He  had  "needed  shaking  up,"  as  they 
say  down  there,  and  he  was  shaken  up. 

Nevertheless,  though  undoubtedly  shaken  up,  he  had 
the  male  wit  to  perceive  that  the  bedroom  episode  had 


THE  HOUSE  13 

been  a  peculiar  triumph  for  himself.  Her  attitude  in 
it,  imperious  superficially,  was  in  truth  an  impassioned 
and  outright  surrender  to  him.  And  further,  she  had 
at  once  become  a  frankly  admiring  partisan  of  his  the- 
ory of  bedrooms.  The  need  for  a  comfortable  solitude 
earlier  in  life  had  led  Edwin  to  make  his  bedroom 
habitable  by  means  of  a  gas-stove,  an  easy  chair,  and 
minor  amenities.  When  teased  by  hardy  compatriots 
about  his  sybaritism  Edwin  was  apt  sometimes  to  flush 
and  be  "nettled,"  and  he  would  make  offensive  un- 
English  comments  upon  the  average  bedroom  of  the 
average  English  household,  which  was  so  barbaric  that 
during  eight  months  of  the  year  you  could  not  maintain 
your  temperature  in  it  unless  you  were  either  in 
bed  or  running  about  the  room,  and  that  even  in  Sum- 
mer you  could  not  sit  down  therein  at  ease  because  there 
was  nothing  easy  to  sit  on,  nor  a  table  to  sit  at  nor 
even  a  book  to  read.  He  would  caustically  ask  to  be 
informed  why  the  supposedly  practical  and  comfort- 
loving  English  were  content  with  an  Alpine  hut  for  a 
bedroom.  And  in  this  way  he  would  go  on.  He  was 
rather  pleased  with  the  phrase  "Alpine  hut."  One  day 
he  had  overheard  Hilda  replying  to  an  acquaintance 
upstairs :  "People  may  say  what  they  like,  but  Edwin 
and  I  don't  care  to  sleep  in  an  Alpine  hut."  She  had 
caught  it!  She  was  his  disciple  in  that  matter!  And 
how  she  had  appreciated  his  easy-chair!  As  for  calm 
deliberation  in  dressing  and  undressing,  she  could  aston- 
ishingly and  even  disconcertingly  surpass  him  in  the 
quality.  But  it  is  to  be  noted  that  she  would  not  permit 
her  son  to  have  a  gas-stove  in  his  bedroom.  Nor  would 
she  let  him  occupy  the  disdained  principal  bedroom,  her 
argument  being  that  that  room  was  too  large  for  a  little 
boy.  Maggie  Clayhanger's  old  bedroom  was  given  to 
George,  and  the  principal  bedroom  remained  empty. 


CHAPTER  II 

HILDA    ON    THE    STATES 


ADA  descended  the  stairs,  young,  slim,  very  neat. 
Ada  was  one  of  Hilda's  two  new  servants.  Before  tak- 
ing charge  of  the  house  Hilda  had  ordained  the  opera- 
tion called  "a  clean  sweep,"  and  Edwin  had  approved. 
The  elder  of  Maggie's  two  servants  had  been  a  good 
one,  but  Hilda  had  shown  no  interest  in  the  catalogue 
of  her  excellences.  She  wanted  fresh  servants.  Mag- 
gie, Eke  Edwin,  approved,  but  only  as  a  general  prin- 
ciple. In  the  particular  case  she  had  hinted  that  her 
prospective  sister-in-law  was  perhaps  unwise  to  let  slip 
a  tested  servant.  Hilda  wanted  not  merely  fresh  serv- 
ants, but  young  servants  agreeable  to  behold.  "I  will 
not  have  a  lot  of  middle-aged  scowling  women  about 
my  house,"  Hilda  had  said.  Maggie  was  reserved,  but 
her  glance  was  meant  to  remind  Hilda  that  in  those 
end-of-the-century  days  mistresses  had  to  be  content 
with  what  they  could  get.  Young  and  comely  servants 
were  all  very  well — if  you  could  drop  on  them,  but  sup- 
posing you  couldn't?  The  fact  was  that  Maggie  could 
not  understand  Hilda's  insistence  on  youth  and  comeli- 
ness in  a  servant,  and  she  foresaw  trouble  for  Hilda. 
Hilda,  however,  obtained  her  desire.  She  was  outspoken 
with  her  servants.  If  Edwin  after  his  manner  implied 
that  she  was  dangerously  ignoring  the  touchiness  of  the 
modern  servant,  she  would  say  indifferently:  "It's  al- 
ways open  to  them  to  go  if  they  don't  like  it."  They 

14 


HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS  15 

did  not  go.  It  is  notorious  that  foolhardy  mistresses 
are  often  very  lucky. 

As  soon  as  Ada  caught  sight  of  her  master  in  the 
hall  she  became  self-conscious;  all  the  joints  of  her 
body  seemed  to  be  hung  on  very  resilient  springs,  and, — 
reddening  slightly, — she  lowered  her  gaze  and  looked  at 
her  tripping  toes.  Edwin  seldom  spoke  to  her  more 
than  once  a  day,  and  not  always  that.  He  had  one  day 
visited  the  large  attic  into  which,  with  her  colleague, 
she  disappeared  late  at  night  and  from  which  she 
emerged  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  had  seen  two 
small  tin  trunks  and  some  clothes  behind  the  door,  and 
an  alarm-clock  and  a  portrait  of  a  fireman  on  the  man- 
telpiece. (The  fireman,  he  seemed  to  recollect,  was  her 
brother.)  But  she  was  a  stranger  in  his  house,  and 
he  had  no  sustained  curiosity  about  her.  The  days 
were  gone  when  he  used  to  be  the  intimate  of  servants — 
of  Mrs.  Nixon,  for  example,  sole  prop  of  the  Clay- 
hanger  family  for  many  years,  and  an  entirely  human 
being  to  Edwin.  Mrs.  Nixon  had  never  been  either 
young,  slim,  or  neat.  She  was  dead.  The  last  servant 
whom  he  could  be  said  to  have  known  was  a  pert  niece 
of  Mrs.  Nixon's — now  somebody's  prolific  wife  and 
much  changed.  And  he  was  now  somebody's  husband, 
and  bearded,  and  perhaps  occasionally  pompous,  and 
much  changed  in  other  ways.  So  that  enigmatic  Adas 
bridled  at  sight  of  him  and  became  intensely  aware  of 
themselves.  Still,  this  Ada  in  her  smartness  was  a 
pretty  sight  for  his  eyes  as  like  an  aspen  she  trembled 
down  the  stairs,  though  the  coarseness  of  her  big  red 
hands,  and  the  vulgarity  of  her  accent  were  a  sur- 
prising contrast  to  her  waist  and  her  fine  carriage. 

He  knew  she  had  been  hooking  her  mistress's  dress, 
and  that  therefore  the  hooking  must  be  finished.  He 
liked  to  think  of  Hilda  being  attired  thus  in  the  bed- 


16  THESE  TWAIN 

room  by  a  natty  deferential  wench.  The  process  gave 
to  Hilda  a  luxurious,  even  an  oriental  quality,  which 
charmed  him.  He  liked  the  suddenly  impressive  tone 
in  which  the  haughty  Hilda  would  say  to  Ada,  "Your 
master,"  as  if  mentioning  a  sultan.  He  was  more  and 
more  anxious  lest  Hilda  should  be  late,  and  he  wanted 
to  ask  Ada:  "Is  Mrs.  Clayhanger  coming  down?" 

But  he  discreetly  forbore.  He  might  have  run  up 
to  the  bedroom  and  burst  in  on  the  toilette — Hilda 
would  have  welcomed  him.  But  he  preferred  to  remain 
with  his  anxiety  where  he  was,  and  meditate  upon  Hilda 
bedecking  herself  up  there  in  the  bedroom — to  please 
him ;  to  please  not  the  guests,  but  him. 

Ada  disappeared  down  the  narrow  passage  leading 
to  the  kitchen,  and  a  moment  later  he  heard  a  crude 
giggle,  almost  a  scream,  and  some  echo  of  the  rough 
tones  in  which  the  servants  spoke  to  each  other  when 
they  were  alone  in  the  kitchen.  There  were  in  fact  two 
Adas ;  one  was  as  timid  as  a  fawn  with  a  voice  like  a 
delicate  invalid's ;  the  other  a  loud-mouthed  hoity-toity 
girl  such  as  rushed  out  of  potbanks  in  flannel  apron  at 
one  o'clock.  The  Clayhanger  servants  were  satisfac- 
tory, more  than  satisfactory,  the  subject  of  favourable 
comment  for  their  neatness  among  the  mistresses  of 
other  servants.  He  liked  them  to  be  about ;  their  pres- 
ence and  their  official  demeanour  flattered  him;  they 
perfected  the  complex  superiority  of  his  house, — that 
island.  But  when  he  overheard  them  alone  together,  or 
when  he  set  himself  to  imagine  what  their  soul's  life 
was,  he  was  more  than  ever  amazed  at  the  unnoticed 
profound  differences  between  modes  of  thought  that  in 
apparently  the  most  natural  manner  could  exist  so 
close  together  without  producing  a  cataclysm.  Auntie 
Hamps's  theory  was  that  they  were  all — he,  she,  the 
servants — equal  in  the  sight  of  God ! 


HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS  IT 

ii 

Hilda's  son,  George  Edwin,  sidled  surprisingly  into 
the  hall.  He  was  wearing  a  sailor  suit,  very  new,  and 
he  had  probably  been  invisible  somewhere  against  the 
blue  curtains  of  the  drawing-room  window — an  example 
of  nature's  protective  mimicry.  George  was  rather 
small  for  his  ten  years.  Dark,  like  his  mother,  he  had 
her  eyes  and  her  thick  eyebrows  that  almost  met  in 
the  middle,  and  her  pale  skin.  As  for  his  mind,  he 
seemed  to  be  sometimes  alarmingly  precocious  and 
sometimes  a  case  of  arrested  development.  In  this  and 
many  other  respects  he  greatly  resembled  other  boys. 
The  son  of  a  bigamist  can  have  no  name,  unless  it  be 
his  mother's  maiden  name,  but  George  knew  nothing 
of  that.  He  had  borne  his  father's  name,  and  when 
at  the  exciting  and  puzzling  period  of  his  mother's 
marriage  he  had  learnt  that  his  surname  would  in 
future  be  Clayhanger  he  had  a  little  resented  the  affront 
to  his  egoism.  Edwin's  explanation,  however,  that  the 
change  was  for  the  convenience  of  people  in  general 
had  caused  him  to  shrug  his  shoulders  in  concession 
and  to  murmur  casually:  "Oh,  well  then — !"  He 
seemed  to  be  assenting  with  loftiness:  "If  it's  any 
particular  use  to  the  whole  world,  I  don't  really  mind." 

"I  say,  uncle,"  he  began. 

Edwin  had  chosen  this  form  of  address.  "Step- 
father" was  preposterous,  and  "father"  somehow  of- 
fended him;  so  he  constituted  himself  an  uncle. 

"Hello,  kid!"  said  he.  "Can  you  find  room  to  keep 
anything  else  in  your  pockets  besides  your  hands?" 

George  snatched  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets.  Then 
he  smiled  confidently  up.  These  two  were  friends.  Ed- 
win was  as  proud  as  the  boy  of  the  friendship,  and  per- 
haps more  flattered.  At  first  he  had  not  cared  for 


18  THESE  TWAIN 

George,  being  repelled  by  George's  loud,  positive  tones, 
his  brusque  and  often  violent  gestures,  and  his  intense 
absorption  in  himself.  But  gradually  he  had  been  won 
by  the  boy's  boyishness,  his  smile,  his  little,  soft  body, 
his  unspoken  invocations,  his  resentment  of  injustice 
(except  when  strict  justice  appeared  to  clash  with  his 
own  interests),  his  absolute  impotence  against  adult  de- 
crees, his  touching  fatalism,  his  recondite  personal  dis- 
tinction that  flashed  and  was  gone,  and  his  occasional 
cleverness  and  wit.  He  admitted  that  George  charmed 
him.  But  he  well  knew  that  he  also  charmed  George. 
He  had  a  way  of  treating  George  as  an  equal  that  few 
children  (save  possibly  Clara's)  could  have  resisted. 
True,  he  would  quiz  the  child,  but  he  did  not  forbid  the 
child  to  quiz.  The  mother  was  profoundly  relieved  and 
rejoiced  by  this  friendship.  She  luxuriated  in  it.  Edwin 
might  well  have  been  inimical  to  the  child;  he  might 
through  the  child  have  shown  a  jealousy  of  the  child's 
father.  But,  somewhat  to  the  astonishment  of  even 
Edwin  himself,  he  never  saw  the  father  in  the  child, 
nor  thought  of  the  father,  nor  resented  the  parenthood 
that  was  not  his.  For  him  the  child  was  an  individual. 
And  in  spite  of  his  stern  determination  not  to  fall  into 
the  delusions  of  conceited  parents,  he  could  not  help 
thinking  that  George  was  a  remarkable  child. 

"Have  you  seen  my  horse?"  asked  George. 

"Have  I  seen  your  horse?  ...  Oh!  ...  I've  seen 
that  you've  left  it  lying  about  on  the  hall-table." 

"I  put  it  there  so  that  you'd  see  it,"  George  per- 
suasively excused  himself  for  the  untidiness. 

"Well,  let's  inspect  it,"  Edwin  forgave  him,  and 
picked  up  from  the  table  a  piece  of  cartridge-paper 
on  which  was  a  drawing  of  a  great  cart-horse  with 
shaggy  feet.  It  was  a  vivacious  sketch. 

"You're  improving,"  said  Edwin,  judicially,  but  in 


HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS  19 

fact  much  impressed.  Surely  few  boys  of  ten  could 
draw  as  well  as  that!  The  design  was  strangely  more 
mature  than  certain  quite  infantile  watercolours  that 
Edwin  had  seen  scarcely  a  year  earlier. 

"It's  rather  good,  isn't  it?"  George  suggested,  lift- 
ing up  his  head  so  that  he  could  just  see  over  the  edge 
of  the  paper  which  Edwin  held  at  the  level  of  his 
watch-chain. 

"I've  met  worse.  Where  did  you  see  this  particular 
animal?" 

"I  saw  him  down  near  the  Brewery  this  morning. 
But  when  I'm  doing  a  horse,  I  see  him  on  the  paper 
before  I  begin  to  draw,  and  I  just  draw  round  him." 

Edwin  thought: 

"This  kid  is  no  ordinary  kid." 

He  said : 

"Well,  we'll  pin  it  up  here.  We'll  have  a  Royal 
Academy  and  hear  what  the  public  has  to  say."  He 
took  a  pin  from  under  his  waistcoat. 

"That's  not  level,"  said  George. 

And  when  Edwin  had  readjusted  the  pin,  George 
persisted  boldly: 

"That's  not  level  either." 

"It's  as  level  as  it's  going  to  be.  I  expect  you've 
been  drawing  horses  instead  of  practising  your  piano." 

He  looked  down  at  the  mysterious  little  boy,  who 
lived  always  so  much  nearer  to  the  earth's  surface  than 
himself. 

George  nodded  simply,  and  then  scratched  his  head. 

"I  suppose  if  I  don't  practise  while  I'm  young  I  shall 
regret  it  in  after  life,  shan't  I?" 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"It's  what  Auntie  Hamps  said  to  me,  I  think.  .  . 
I  say,  uncle." 

"What's  up?" 


20  THESE  TWAIN 

"Is  Mr.  John  coming  to-night?" 

"I  suppose  so.     Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  ...  I  say,  uncle." 

"That's  twice  you've  said  it." 

The  boy  smiled. 

"You  know  that  piece  in  the  Bible  about  if  two  of 
you  shall  agree  on  earth — ?" 

"What  of  it?"  Edwin  asked  rather  curtly,  antici- 
pating difficulties. 

"I  don't  think  two  boys  would  be  enough,  would 
they?  Two  grown-ups  might.  But  I'm  not  so  sure 
about  two  boys.  You  see  in  the  very  next  verse  it  says 
two  or  three,  gathered  together." 

"Three  might  be  more  effective.  It's  always  as  well 
to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

"Could  you  pray  for  anything?  A  penknife,  for 
instance?" 

"Why  not?" 

"But  could  you?"  George  was  a  little  impatient. 

"Better  ask  your  mother,"  said  Edwin,  who  was 
becoming  self-conscious  under  the  strain. 

George  exploded  coarsely: 

"Poh!     It's  no  good  asking  mother." 

Said  Edwin: 

"The  great  thing  in  these  affairs  is  to  know  what 
you  want,  and  to  want  it.  Concentrate  as  hard  as  you 
can,  a  long  time  in  advance.  No  use  half  wanting!" 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  that's  poz  [positive].  I 
couldn't  begin  to  concentrate  to-night." 

"Why  not?" 

"Who  could?"  George  protested.  "We're  all  so 
nervous  to-night,  aren't  we,  with  this  At  Home  busi- 
ness. And  I  know  I  never  could  concentrate  in  my 
best  clothes." 

For  Edwin  the  boy  with  his  shocking  candour  had 


HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS  21 

suddenly  precipitated  out  of  the  atmosphere,  as  it 
were,  the  collective  nervousness  of  the  household,  made 
it  into  a  phenomenon  visible,  tangible,  oppressive.  And 
the  household  was  no  longer  a  collection  of  units,  but 
an  entity.  A  bell  rang  faintly  in  the  kitchen,  and  the 
sound  abraded  his  nerves.  The  first  guests  were  on 
the  threshold,  and  Hilda  was  late.  He  looked  at  the 
clock.  Yes,  she  was  late.  The  hour  named  in  the 
invitations  was  already  past.  All  day  he  had  feared 
lest  she  should  be  late,  and  she  was  late.  He  looked 
at  the  glass  of  the  front-door ;  but  night  had  come,  and 
it  was  opaque.  Ada  tripped  into  view  and  ran  upstairs. 

"Don't  you  hear  the  front-door?"  he  stopped  her 
flight. 

"It  was  missis's  bell,  sir." 

"Ah!"    Respite! 

Ada  disappeared. 

Then  another  ring !  And  no  parlour-maid  to  answer 
the  bell!  Naturally!  Naturally  Hilda,  forgetting 
something  at  the  last  moment,  had  taken  the  parlour- 
maid away  precisely  when  the  girl  was  needed !  Oh ! 
He  had  foreseen  it !  He  could  hear  shuffling  outside  and 
could  even  distinguish  forms  through  the  glass — many 
forms.  All  the  people  converging  from  various  streets 
upon  the  waiting  nervousness  of  the  household  seemed 
to  have  arrived  at  once. 

George  moved  impulsively  towards  the  front-door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Edwin  asked  roughly. 
"Come  here.  It's  not  your  place  to  open  the  door. 
Come  with  me  in  the  drawing-room." 

It  was  no  affair  of  Edwin's,  thought  Edwin  crossly 
and  uncompromisingly,  if  guests  were  kept  waiting  at 
the  front-door.  It  was  Hilda's  affair;  she  was  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  and  the  blame  was  hers. 

At  high  speed  Ada  swept  with  streamers  down  the 


22  THESE  TWAIN 

stairs,  like  a  squirrel  down  the  branch  of  a  tree.     And 
then  came  Hilda. 

ni 

She  stood  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  waiting  while 
the  front-door  was  opened.  He  and  George  could  see 
her  over  and  through  the  banisters.  And  at  sight  of 
her  triumphant  and  happy  air,  all  Edwin's  annoyance 
melted.  He  did  not  desire  that  it  should  melt,  but  it 
melted.  She  was  late.  He  could  not  rely  on  her  not 
to  be  late.  In  summoning  the  parlourmaid  to  her  bed- 
room when  the  parlourmaid  ought  to  have  been  on 
duty  downstairs  she  had  acted  indefensibly  and  with- 
out thought.  No  harm,  as  it  happened,  was  done. 
Sheer  chance  often  thus  saved  her,  but  logically  her 
double  fault  was  not  thereby  mitigated.  He  felt  that 
if  he  forgave  her,  if  he  dismissed  the  charge  and  wiped 
the  slate,  he  was  being  false  to  the  great  male  principles 
of  logic  and  justice.  The  godlike  judge  in  him  re- 
sented the  miscarriage  of  justice.  Nevertheless  justice 
miscarried.  And  the  weak  husband  said  like  a  woman : 
"What  does  it  matter?"  Such  was  her  shameful  power 
over  him,  of  which  the  unscrupulous  creature  was  quite 
aware. 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  asked  himself:  "Is  she  mag- 
nificent? Or  is  she  just  ordinary  and  am  I  deluded? 
Does  she  seem  her  age?  Is  she  a  mature  woman  get- 
ting past  the  prime,  or  has  she  miraculously  kept  her- 
self a  young  girl  for  me?" 

In  years  she  was  thirty-five.  She  had  large  bones, 
and  her  robust  body,  neither  plump  nor  slim,  showed 
the  firm,  assured  carriage  of  its  age.  It  said: 
"I  have  stood  before  the  world,  and  I  can- 
not be  intimidated."  Still,  marriage  had  rejuvenated 
her.  She  was  marvellously  young  at  times,  and 


HILDA  ON  THE  STAIRS  23 

experience  would  drop  from  her  and  leave  the  girl  that 
he  had  first  known  and  kissed  ten  years  earlier ;  but  a 
less  harsh,  less  uncompromising  girl.  At  their  first  ac- 
quaintance she  had  repelled  him  with  her  truculent  seri- 
ousness. Nowadays  she  would  laugh  for  no  apparent 
reason,  and  even  pirouette.  Her  complexion  was  good ; 
he  could  nearly  persuade  himself  that  that  olive  skin 
had  not  suffered  in  a  decade  of  distress  and  disasters. 

Previous  to  her  marriage  she  had  shown  little  in- 
terest in  dress.  But  now  she  would  spasmodically 
worry  about  her  clothes,  and  she  would  make  Edwin 
worry.  He  had  to  decide,  though  he  had  no  qualifica- 
tions as  an  arbiter.  She  would  scowl  at  a  dressmaker 
as  if  to  say:  "For  God's  sake  do  realise  that  upon 
you  is  laid  the  sacred  responsibility  of  helping  me  to 
please  my  husband !"  To-night  she  was  wearing  a 
striped  blue  dress,  imperceptibly  decolletee,  with  the 
leg-of-mutton  sleeves  of  the  period.  The  colours,  two 
shades  of  blue,  did  not  suit  her.  But  she  imagined 
that  they  suited  her,  and  so  did  he;  and  the  frock  was 
elaborate,  was  the  result  of  terrific  labour  and  pro- 
duced a  rich  effect,  meet  for  a  hostess  of  position. 

The  mere  fact  that  this  woman  with  no  talent  for 
coquetry  should  after  years  of  narrow  insufficiency 
scowl  at  dressmakers  and  pout  at  senseless  refractory 
silks  in  the  yearning  for  elegance  was  utterly  delicious 
to  Edwin.  Her  presence  there  on  the  landing  of  the 
stairs  was  in  the  nature  of  a  miracle.  He  had. 
wanted  her,  and  he  had  got  her.  In  the  end  he 
had  got  her,  and  nothing  had  been  able  to  stop 
him — not  even  the  obstacle  of  her  tragic  adventure 
with  a  rascal  and  a  bigamist.  The  strong  magic 
of  his  passion  had  forced  destiny  to  render  her  up  to 
him  mysteriously  intact,  after  all.  The  impossible  had 
occurred,  and  society  had  accepted  it,  beaten.  There 


24  THESE  TWAIN 

she  was,  dramatically,  with  her  thick  eyebrows,  and 
the  fine  wide  nostrils  and  the  delicate  lobe  of  the  ear, 
and  that  mouth  that  would  startlingly  fasten  on  him 
and  kiss  the  life  out  of  him. 

"There  is  dear  Hilda !"  said  someone  at  the  door  amid 
the  arriving  group. 

None  but  Auntie  Hamps  would  have  said  'dear' 
Hilda.  Maggie,  Clara,  and  even  Janet  Orgreave  never 
used  sentimental  adjectives  on  occasions  of  ceremony. 

And  in  her  clear,  precise,  dominating  voice  Hilda 
with  gay  ease  greeted  the  company  from  above : 

"Good  evening,  all!" 

"What  the  deuce  was  I  so  upset  about  just  now?" 
thought  Edwin,  in  sudden,  instinctive,  exulting  felicity: 
"E  very  thing  is  absolutely  all  right." 


CHAPTER  III 

ATTACK  AND  REPULSE 


THE  entering  guests  were  Edwin's  younger  sister 
Clara  with  her  husband  Albert  Benbow,  his  elder  sister 
Maggie,  Auntie  Hamps,  and  Mr.  Peartree.  They  had 
arrived  together,  and  rather  unfashionably  soon  after 
the  hour  named  in  the  invitation,  because  the  Benbows 
had  called  at  Auntie  Hamps's  on  the  way  up,  and  the 
Benbows  were  always  early,  both  in  arriving  and  in  de- 
parting, "on  account  of  the  children."  They  called 
themselves  "early  birds."  Whenever  they  were  out  of 
the  nest  in  the  evening  they  called  themselves  early 
birds.  They  used  the  comparison  hundreds,  thousands, 
of  times,  and  never  tired  of  it;  indeed  each  time  they 
were  convinced  that  they  had  invented  it  freshly  for 
the  occasion. 

Said  Auntie  Hamps,  magnificent  in  jetty  black, 
handsome,  and  above  all  imposing: 

"I  knew  you  would  be  delighted  to  meet  Mr.  Peartree 
again,  Edwin.  He  is  staying  the  night  at  my  house — 
I  can  be  so  much  more  hospitable  now  Maggie  is  with 
me — and  I  insisted  he  should  come  up  with  us.  But  it 
needed  no  insisting." 

The  old  erect  lady  looked  from  Mr.  Peartree  with 
pride  towards  her  nephew. 

Mr.  Peartree  was  a  medium-sized  man  of  fifty,  with 
greying  sandy  hair.  Twenty  years  before,  he  had  been 
second  minister  in  the  Bursley  Circuit  of  the  Wesleyan 
Methodist  Connexion.  He  was  now  Superintendent 

25 


26  THESE  TWAIN 

Minister  in  a  Cheshire  circuit.  The  unchangeable 
canons  of  Wesleyanism  permit  its  ministers  to  marry, 
and  celibacy  is  even  discouraged,  for  the  reason  that 
wives  and  daughters  are  expected  to  toil  in  the  cause, 
and  their  labour  costs  the  circuit  not  a  halfpenny.  But 
the  canons  forbid  ministers  to  take  root  and  found  a 
home.  Eleven  times  in  thirty  years  Mr.  Peartree  had 
been  forced  to  migrate  to  a  strange  circuit  and  to 
adapt  his  much-travelled  furniture  and  family  to  a 
house  which  he  had  not  chosen,  and  which  his  wife  gen- 
erally did  not  like.  During  part  of  the  period  he  had 
secretly  resented  the  autocracy  of  Superintendent  Min- 
isters, and  during  the  remainder  he  had  learnt  that  Su- 
perintendent Ministers  are  not  absolute  autocrats. 

He  was  neither  overworked  nor  underpaid.  He  be- 
longed to  the  small  tradesman  class,  and,  keeping  a 
shop  in  St.  Luke's  Square,  he  might  well  have  worked 
harder  for  less  money  than  he  now  earned.  His  voca- 
tion, however,  in  addition  to  its  desolating  nomadic 
quality,  had  other  grave  drawbacks.  It  gave  him  con- 
tact with  a  vast  number  of  human  beings,  but  the  abnor- 
mal proportion  among  them  of  visionaries,  bigots, 
hypocrites,  and  petty  office-seekers  falsified  his  general 
estimate  of  humanity.  Again,  the  canons  rigorously 
forbade  him  to  think  freely  for  himself  on  the  subjects 
which  in  theory  most  interested  him;  with  the  result 
that  he  had  remained  extremely  ignorant  through  the 
very  fear  of  knowledge,  that  he  was  a  warm  enemy 
of  freedom,  and  that  he  habitually  carried  intellectual 
dishonesty  to  the  verge  of  cynicism.  Thirdly,  he  was 
obliged  always  to  be  diplomatic  (except  of  course  with 
his  family),  and  nature  had  not  meant  him  for  the 
diplomatic  career.  He  was  so  sick  of  being  all  things 
to  all  men  that  he  even  dreamed  diplomatic  dreams  as 
a  galley-slave  will  dream  of  the  oar;  and  so  little 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  27 

gifted  for  the  role  that  he  wore  insignificant  tight 
turned-down  collars,  never  having  perceived  the  im- 
mense moral  advantage  conferred  on  the  diplomatist 
by  a  high,  loose,  wide-rolling  collar.  Also  he  was  sick 
of  captivity,  and  this  in  no  wise  lessened  his  objection 
to  freedom.  He  had  lost  all  youthful  enthusiasm,  and 
was  in  fact  equally  bored  with  earth  and  with  heaven. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  authority  and  security.  He 
was  accustomed  to  the  public  gaze  and  to  the  forms  of 
deference.  He  knew  that  he  was  as  secure  as  a  judge, — 
and  far  more  secure  than  a  cabinet-minister.  Nothing 
but  the  inconceivable  collapse  of  a  powerful  and  wealthy 
sect  could  affect  his  position  or  his  livelihood  to  the 
very  end  of  life.  Hence,  beneath  his  weariness  and  his 
professional  attitudinarianism  there  was  a  hint  of  the 
devil-may-care  that  had  its  piquancy.  He  could  foresee 
with  indifference  even  the  distant  but  approaching  day 
when  he  would  have  to  rise  in  the  pulpit  and  assert  that 
the  literal  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures  was  not  and 
never  had  been  an  essential  article  of  Wesleyan  faith. 

Edwin  blenched  at  the  apparition  of  Mr.  Peartree. 
That  even  Auntie  Hamps  should  dare  uninvited  to 
bring  a  Wesleyan  Minister  to  the  party  was  startling; 
but  that  the  minister  should  be  Mr.  Peartree  staggered 
him.  For  twenty  years  and  more  Edwin  had  secretly, 
and  sometimes  in  public,  borne  a  tremendous  grudge 
against  Mr.  Peartree.  He  had  execrated,  anathema- 
tised, and  utterly  excommunicated  Mr.  Peartree,  and 
had  extended  the  fearful  curse  to  his  family,  all  his 
ancestors,  and  all  his  descendants.  When  Mr.  Peartree 
was  young  and  fervent  in  the  service  of  heaven  he  had 
had  the  monstrous  idea  of  instituting  a  Saturday 
Afternoon  Bible  Class  for  schoolboys.  Abetted  by 
parents  weak-minded  and  cruel,  he  had  caught  and 
horribly  tortured  some  score  of  miserable  victims,  of 


28  THESE  TWAIN 

whom  Edwin  was  one.  The  bitter  memory  of  those 
weekly  half-holidays  thieved  from  him  and  made  deso- 
late by  a  sanctimonious  crank  had  never  softened,  nor 
had  Edwin  ever  forgiven  Mr.  Peartree. 

It  was  at  the  sessions  of  the  Bible  Class  that  Edwin, 
while  silently  perfecting  himself  in  the  art  of  profanity 
and  blasphemy,  had  in  secret  fury  envenomed  his  in- 
stinctive mild  objection  to  the  dogma,  the  ritual,  and 
the  spirit  of  conventional  Christianity,  especially  as 
exemplified  in  Wesleyan  Methodism.  He  had  left  Mr. 
Peartree's  Bible  Class  a  convinced  anti-religionist,  a 
hater  and  despiser  of  all  that  the  Wesleyan  Chapel 
and  Mr.  Peartree  stood  for.  He  deliberately  was  not 
impartial,  and  he  took  a  horrid  pleasure  in  being  un- 
fair. He  knew  well  that  Methodism  had  produced  many 
fine  characters,  and  played  a  part  in  the  moral  devel- 
opment of  the  race ;  but  he  would  not  listen  to  his  own 
knowledge.  Nothing  could  extenuate,  for  him,  the  nox- 
iousness of  Methodism.  On  the  other  hand  he  was  full 
of  glee  if  he  could  add  anything  to  the  indictment 
against  it  and  Christianity.  Huxley's  controversial 
victories  over  Gladstone  were  then  occurring  in  the 
monthly  press,  and  he  acclaimed  them  with  enormous 
gusto.  When  he  first  read  that  the  Virgin  Birth  was 
a  feature  of  sundry  creeds  more  ancient  than  Chris- 
tianity, his  private  satisfaction  was  intense  and  lasted 
acutely  for  days.  'When  he  heard  that  Methodism  had 
difficulty  in  maintaining  its  supply  of  adequately 
equipped  ministers,  he  rejoiced  with  virulence.  His  hos- 
tility was  the  more  significant  in  that  it  was  concealed 
— embedded  like  a  foreign  substance  in  the  rather  suave 
gentleness  of  his  nature.  At  intervals — ^creasingly 
frequent,  it  is  true — he  would  carry  it  into  the  chapel 
itself;  for  through  mingled  cowardice  and  sharp  pru- 
dence, he  had  not  formally  left  the  Connexion.  To 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  29 

compensate  himself  for  such  bowings-down  he  would 
now  and  then  assert,  judicially  to  a  reliable  male  friend, 
or  with  ferocious  contempt  to  a  scandalised  defenceless 
sister,  that,  despite  all  parsons,  religion  was  not  a 
necessity  of  the  human  soul,  and  that  he  personally  had 
never  felt  the  need  of  it  and  never  would.  In  which 
assertion  he  was  profoundly  sincere. 

And  yet  throughout  he  had  always  thought  of  him- 
self as  a  rebel  against  authority ;  and — such  is  tfie  mys- 
terious intimidating  prestige  of  the  past — he  was  out- 
wardly an  apologetic  rebel.  Neither  his  intellectual 
pride  nor  his  cold  sustained  resentment,  nor  his  axi- 
omatic conviction  of  the  crude  and  total  falseness  of 
Christian  theology,  nor  all  three  together,  had  ever 
sufficed  to  rid  him  of  the  self-excusing  air.  When 
Auntie  Hamps  spoke  with  careful  reverence  of  "the 
Super"  (short  for  "superintendent  minister"),  the 
word  had  never  in  thirty  years  quite  failed  to  inspire  in 
him  some  of  the  awe  with  which  he  had  heard  it  as  an 
infant.  Just  as  a  policeman  was  not  an  employee  but 
a  policeman,  so  a  minister  was  not  a  person  of  the 
trading-class  who  happened  to  have  been  through  a  cer- 
tain educational  establishment,  subscribed  to  certain 
beliefs,  submitted  to  certain  ceremonies  and  adopted  a 
certain  costume, — but  a  minister,  a  being  inexplicably 
endowed  with  authority, — in  fact  a  sort  of  arch-police- 
man. And  thus,  while  detesting  and  despising  him,  Ed- 
win had  never  thought  of  Abel  Peartree  as  merely  a 
man. 

Now,  in  the  gas-lit  bustle  of  the  hall,  after  an  inter- 
val of  about  twenty  years,  he  beheld  again  his  enemy, 
his  bugbear,^  his  loathed  oppressor,  the  living  symbol 
of  all  that  his  soul  condemned. 

Said  Mrs.  Hamps : 

"I  reminded  Mr.  Peartree  that  you  used  to  attend 


30  THESE  TWAIN 

his  Bible-class,  Edwin.  Do  you  remember?  I  hope 
you  do." 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Edwin,  with  a  slight  nervous  laugh, 
blushing.  His  eye  caught  Clara's,  but  there  was  no 
sign  whatever  of  the  old  malicious  grin  on  her  maternal 
face.  Nor  did  Maggie's  show  a  tremor.  And,  of 
course,  the  majestic  duplicity  of  Auntie  Hamps  did 
not  quiver  under  the  strain.  So  that  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Peartree,  protesting  honestly  that  he  should  have  recog- 
nised his  old  pupil  Mr.  Clayhanger  anywhere,  never 
suspected  the  terrific  drama  of  the  moment. 

And  the  next  moment  there  was  no  drama.  .  .  . 
Teacher  and  pupil  shook  hands.  The  recognition  was 
mutual.  To  Edwin,  Mr.  Peartree,  save  for  the  greying 
of  his  hair,  had  not  changed.  His  voice,  his  form,  his 
gestures,  were  absolutely  the  same.  Only,  instead  of 
being  Mr.  Peartree,  he  was  a  man  like  another  man — 
a  commonplace,  hard-featured,  weary  man;  a  spare 
little  man,  with  a  greenish-black  coat  and  bluish-white 
low  collar;  a  perfunctory,  listless  man  with  an  un- 
pleasant voice ;  a  man  with  the  social  code  of  the  Ben- 
bows  and  Auntie  Hamps ;  a  man  the  lines  of  whose 
face  disclosed  a  narrow  and  self-satisfied  ignorance;  a 
man  whose  destiny  had  forbidden  him  ever  to  be  natu- 
ral; the  usual  snobbish  man,  who  had  heard  of  the  im- 
portance and  the  success  and  the  wealth  of  Edwin  Clay- 
hanger  and  who  kowtowed  thereto  and  was  naively 
impressed  thereby,  and  proud  that  Edwin  Clayhanger 
had  once  been  his  pupil;  and  withal  an  average  decent 
fellow. 

Edwin  rather  liked  the  casual  look  in  Mr.  Peartree's 
eyes  that  said:  "My  being  here  is  part  of  my  job. 
I'm  indifferent.  I  do  what  I  have  to  do,  and  I  really 
don't  care.  I  have  paid  tens  of  thousands  of  calls 
and  I  shall  pay  tens  of  thousands  more.  If  I  am  bored 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  31 

I  am  paid  to  be  bored,  and  I  repeat  I  really  don't  care." 
This  was  the  human  side  of  Mr.  Peartree  showing  itself. 
It  endeared  him  to  Edwin. 

"Not  a  bad  sort  of  cuss,  after  all !"  thought  Edwin. 

All  the  carefully  tended  rage  and  animosity  of  twenty 
years  evaporated  out  of  his  heart  and  was  gone.  He 
did  not  forgive  Mr.  Peartree,  because  there  was  no  Mr. 
Peartree — there  was  only  this  man.  And  there  was 
no  Wesleyan  chapel  either,  but  only  an  ugly  forlorn 
three-quarters-empty  building  at  the  top  of  Duck  Bank. 
And  Edwin  was  no  longer  an  apologetic  rebel,  nor  even 
any  kind  of  a  rebel.  It  occurred  to  nobody,  not  even 
to  the  mighty  Edwin,  that  in  those  few  seconds  the  his- 
tory of  dogmatic  religion  had  passed  definitely  out  of 
one  stage  into  another. 

Abel  Peartree  nonchalantly,  and  with  a  practised 
aplomb  which  was  not  disturbed  even  by  the  vision  of 
George's  heroic  stallion,  said  the  proper  things  to  Ed- 
win and  Hilda;  and  it  became  known,  somehow,  that 
the  parson  was  re-visiting  Bursley  in  order  to  deliver 
his  well-known  lecture  entitled  "The  Mantle  and  Mis- 
sion of  Elijah," — the  sole  lecture  of  his  repertoire,  but 
it  had  served  to  raise  him  ever  so  slightly  out  of  the 
ruck  of  'Supers.'  Hilda  patronised  him.  Against  the 
rich  background  of  her  home,  she  assumed  the  pose  of 
the  grand  lady.  Abel  Peartree  seemed  to  like  the  pose, 
and  grew  momentarily  vivacious  in  knightly  response. 
"And  why  not?"  said  Edwin  to  himself,  justifying  his 
wife  after  being  a  little  critical  of  her  curtness. 

Then,  when  the  conversation  fell,  Auntie  Hamps  dis- 
creetly suggested  that  she  and  the  girls  should  "go 
upstairs."  The  negligent  Hilda  had  inexcusably  for- 
gotten in  her  nervous  excitement  that  on  these  occa- 
sions arriving  ladies  should  be  at  once  escorted  to  the 
specially-titivated  best  bedroom,  there  to  lay  their 


32  THESE  TWAIN 

things  on  the  best  counterpane.  She  perhaps  ought  to 
have  atoned  for  her  negligence  by  herself  leading 
Auntie  Hamps  to  the  bedroom.  But  instead  she 
deputed  Ada.  "And  why  not?"  said  Edwin  to  himself 
again.  As  the  ladies  mounted  Mr.  Peartree  laughed 
genuinely  at  one  of  Albert  Benbow's  characteristic 
pleasantries,  which  always  engloomed  Edwin.  "Kin- 
dred spirits,  those  two !"  thought  the  superior  sardonic 
Edwin,  and  privately  raised  his  eyebrows  to  his  wife, 
who  answered  the  signal. 


n 

Somewhat  later,  various  other  guests  having  come 
and  distributed  themselves  over  the  reception-rooms, 
the  chandeliers  glinted  down  their  rays  upon  light  sum- 
mer frocks  and  some  jewellery  and  coats  of  black  and 
dark  grey  and  blue;  and  the  best  counterpanes  in  the 
best  bedroom  were  completely  hidden  by  mantles  and 
cloaks,  and  the  hatstand  in  the  hall  heavily  clustered 
with  hats  and  caps.  The  reception  was  in  being,  and 
the  interior  full  of  animation.  Edwin,  watchful  and 
hospitably  anxious,  wandered  out  of  the  drawing-room 
into  the  hall.  The  door  of  the  breakfast-room  was 
ajar,  and  he  could  hear  Clara's  voice  behind  it.  He 
knew  that  the  Benbows  and  Maggie  and  Auntie  Hamps 
were  all  in  the  breakfast-room,  and  he  blamed  chiefly 
Clara  for  this  provincial  clannishness,  which  was  so 
characteristic  of  her.  Surely  Auntie  Hamps  at  any 
rate  ought  to  have  realised  that  the  duty  of  members 
of  the  family  was  to  spread  themselves  among  the  other 
guests ! 

He  listened. 

"No,"  Clara  was  saying,  "we  don't  know  what's  hap- 
pened to  him  since  he  came  out  of  prison.  He  got  two 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  33 

years."     She  was  speaking  in  what  Edwin  called  her 
'scandal'  tones,  low,  clipped,  intimate,  eager,  blissful. 
And  then  Albert  Benbow's  voice : 
"He's  had  the  good  sense  not  to  bother  us." 
Edwin,   while    resenting   the    conversation,    and    the 
Benbows'  use  of  "we"  and  "us"  in  a  matter  which  did 
not  concern  them,  was  grimly  comforted  by  the  thought 
of  their  ignorance  of  a  detail  which  would  have  in- 
terested them  passionately.     None  but  Hilda  and  him- 
self knew  that  the  bigamist  was  at  that  moment  in 
prison  again  for  another  and  a  later  offence.     Every- 
thing had  been  told  but  that. 

"Of  course,"  said  Clara,  "they  needn't  have  said 
anything  about  the  bigamy  at  all,  and  nobody  outside 
the  family  need  have  known  that  poor  Hilda  was  not 
just  an  ordinary  widow.  But  we  all  thought — " 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,  Clary,"  Albert 
Benbow  interrupted  his  wife;  "you  mustn't  forget  his 
real  wife  came  to  Turnhill  to  make  enquiries.  That 
started  a  hare." 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Clara  vaguely. 
Mr.  Peartree's  voice  came  in: 
"But  surely  the  case  was  in  the  papers?" 
"I  expect  it  was  in  the  Sussex  papers,"  Albert  re- 
plied.    "You  see,  they  went  through  the  ceremony  of 
marriage  at  Lewes.     But  it  never  got  into  the  local 
rag,  because  he  got  married  in  his  real  name — Cannon 
wasn't  his    real  name;   and  he'd  no  address   in   the 
Five     Towns,     then.       He     was     just     a     boarding- 
house    keeper    at    Brighton.     It    was    a    miracle    it 
didn't  get  into   the  Signal,  if   you   ask   me;   but   it 
didn't.    I  happen  to  know" — his  voice  grew  important 
— "that  the  Signal  people  have  an  arrangement  with 
the  Press  Association  for  a  full  report  of  all  matri- 
monial cases  that  'ud  be  likely  to  interest  the  district. 


34  THESE  TWAIN 

However,  the  Press  Association  weren't  quite,  on  the 
spot  that  time.  And  it's  not  surprising  they  weren't, 
either." 

Clara  resumed: 

"No.  It  never  came  out.  Still,  as  I  say,  we  all 
thought  it  best  not  to  conceal  anything.  Albert 
strongly  advised  Edwin  not  to  attempt  any  such  thing." 
("What  awful  rot!"  thought  Edwin.)  "So  we  just 
mentioned  it  quietly  like  to  a  few  friends.  After  all, 
poor  Hilda  was  perfectly  innocent.  Of  course  she  felt 
her  position  keenly  when  she  came  to  live  here  after 
the  wedding."  ("Did  she  indeed!"  thought  Edwin.) 
"Edwin  would  have  the  wedding  in  London.  We  did 
so  feel  for  her."  ("Did  you  indeed!"  thought  Edwin.) 
"She  wouldn't  have  an  At  Home.  I  knew  it  was  a 
mistake  not  to.  We  all  knew.  But  no,  she  would  not. 
Folks  began  to  talk.  They  thought  it  strange  she 
didn't  have  an  At  Home  like  other  folks.  Many  young 
married  women  have  two  At  Homes  nowadays.  So  in 
the  end  she  was  persuaded.  She  fixed  it  for  August 
because  she  thought  so  many  people  would  be  away  at 
the  seaside.  But  they  aren't — at  least  not  so  many  as 
you'd  think.  Albert  says  it's  owing  to  the  General 
Election  upset.  And  she  wouldn't  have  it  in  the  after- 
noon like  other  folks.  Mrs.  Edwin  isn't  like  other 
folks,  and  you  can't  alter  her." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  evening  for  an  At  Home, 
anyhow?"  asked  Benhow  the  breezy  and  consciously 
broad-minded. 

"Oh,  of  course,  /  quite  agree.  I  like  it.  But  folks 
are  so  funny." 

After  a  momentary  pause,  Mr.  Peartree  said  uncer- 
tainly : 

"And  there's  a  little  boy?" 

Said  Clara: 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  35 

"Yes,  the  one  you've  seen." 

Said  Auntie  Hamps: 

"Poor  little  thing!  I  do  feel  so  sorry  for  him — 
when  he  grows  up — " 

"You  needn't,  Auntie,"  said  Maggie  curtly,  express- 
ing her  attitude  to  George  in  that  mild  curtness. 

"Of  course,"  said  Clara  quickly.  "We  never  let  it 
make  any  difference.  In  fact  our  Bert  and  he  are 
rather  friends,  aren't  they,  Albert?" 

At  this  moment  George  himself  opened  the  door  of 
the  dining-room,  letting  out  a  faint  buzz  of  talk  and 
clink  of  vessels.  His  mouth  was  not  empty. 

Precipitately  Edwin  plunged  into  the  breakfast- 
room. 

"Hello!  You  people!"  he  murmured.  "Well,  Mr. 
Peartree." 

There  they  were — all  of  them,  including  the  parson 
— grouped  together,  lusciously  bathing  in  the  fluid  of 
scandal. 

Clara  turned,  and  without  the  least  constraint  said 
sweetly : 

"Oh,  Edwin!  There  you  are!  I  was  just  telling 
Mr.  Peartree  about  you  and  Hilda,  you  know.  We 
thought  it  would  be  better." 

"You  see,"  said  Auntie  Hamps  impressively,  "Mr. 
Peartree  will  be  about  the  town  to-morrow,  and  a  word 
from  him — " 

Mr.  Peartree  tried  unsuccessfully  to  look  as  if  he 
was  nobody  in  particular. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Edwin.  "Perhaps  the  door 
might  as  well  be  shut."  He  thought,  as  many  a  man 
has  thought :  "My  relations  take  the  cake !" 

Clara  occupied  the  only  easy  chair  in  the  room. 
Mrs.  Hamps  and  the  parson  were  seated.  Maggie- 
stood.  Albert  Benbow,  ever  uxorious,  was  perched 


36  THESE  TWAIN 

sideways  on  the  arm  of  his  wife's  chair.  Clara,  centre 
of  the  conclave  and  of  all  conclaves  in  which  she  took 
part,  was  the  mother  of  five  children, — and  nearing 
thirty-five  years  of  age.  Maternity  had  ruined  her  once 
slim  figure,  but  neither  she  nor  Albert  seemed  to  mind 
that, — they  seemed  rather  to  be  proud  of  her  unshapeli- 
ness.  Her  face  was  unspoiled.  She  was  pretty  and  had 
a  marvellously  fair  complexion.  In  her  face  Edwin 
could  still  always  plainly  see  the  pert,  charming,  ma- 
licious girl  of  fourteen  who  loathed  Auntie  Hamps  and 
was  rude  to  her  behind  her  back.  But  Clara  and  Auntie 
Hamps  were  fast  friends  nowadays.  Clara's  brood  had 
united  them.  They  thought  alike  on  all  topics.  Clara 
had  accepted  Auntie  Hamps's  code  practically  entire; 
but  on  the  other  hand  she  had  dominated  Auntie 
Hamps.  The  respect  which  Auntie  Hamps  showed  for 
Clara  and  for  Edwin,  and  in  a  slightly  less  degree  for 
Maggie,  was  a  strange  phenomenon  in  the  old  age  of 
that  grandiose  and  vivacious  pillar  of  Wesleyanism  and 
the  conventions. 

Edwin  did  not  like  Clara;  he  objected  to  her  domes- 
ticity, her  motherliness,  her  luxuriant  fruitfulness,  the 
Intonations  of  her  voice,  her  intense  self-satisfaction 
and  her  remarkable  duplicity;  and  perhaps  more  than 
anything  to  her  smug  provinciality.  He  did  not  posi- 
tively dislike  his  brother-in-law,  but  he  objected  to  him 
for  his  uxoriousness,  his  cheerful  assurance  of  Clara's 
perfection,  his  contented  and  conceited  ignorance  of 
all  intellectual  matters,  his  incorrigible  vulgarity  of  a 
small  manufacturer  who  displays  everywhere  the  stig- 
mata of  petty  commerce,  and  his  ingenuous  love  of 
office.  As  for  Maggie,  the  plump  spinster  of  forty,  Ed- 
win respected  her  when  he  thought  of  her,  but  re- 
proached her  for  social  gawkiness  and  taciturnity.  As 
for  Auntie  Hamps,  he  could  not  respect,  but  he  was 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  37 

forced  to  admire,  her  gorgeous  and  sustained  hypocrisy, 
in  which  no  flaw  had  ever  been  found,  and  which  vic- 
timised even  herself ;  he  was  always  invigorated  by  her 
ageless  energy  and  the  sight  of  her  handsome,  erect, 
valiant  figure. 

Edwin's  absence  had  stopped  the  natural  free  course 
of  conversation.  But  there  were  at  least  three  people 
in  the  room  whom  nothing  could  abash:  Mrs.  Hamps, 
Clara,  and  Mr.  Peartree. 

Mr.  Peartree,  sitting  up  with  his  hands  on  his  baggy 
knees,  said: 

"Everything  seems  to  have  turned  out  very  well  in 
the  end,  Mr.  Clayhanger — very  well,  indeed."  His 
features  showed  less  of  the  tedium  of  life. 

"Eh,  yes!  Eh,  yes!"  breathed  Auntie  Hamps  in 
ecstasy. 

Edwin,  diffident  and  ill-pleased,  was  about  to  suggest 
that  the  family  might  advantageously  separate,  when 
George  came  after  him  into  the  room. 

"Oh!"  cried  George. 

"Well,  little  jockey!"  Clara  began  instantly  to  him 
with  an  exaggerated  sweetness  that  Edwin  thought  must 
nauseate  the  child,  "would  you  like  Bert  to  come  up  and 
play  with  you  one  of  these  afternoons?" 

George  stared  at  her,  and  slowly  flushed. 

"Yes,"  said  George.     "Only—" 

"Only  what?" 

"Supposing  I  was  doing  something  else  when  he 
came  ?" 

Without  waiting  for  possible  developments  George 
turned  to  leave  the  room  again. 

"You're  a  caution,  you  are!"  said  Albert  Benbow; 
and  to  the  adults :  "Hates  to  be  disturbed,  I  suppose." 

"That's  it,"  said  Edwin  responsively,  as  brother-in- 
law  to  brother-in-law.  But  he  felt  that  he,  with  a  few 


38  THESE  TWAIN 

months'  experience  of  another's  child,  appreciated  the 
exquisite  strange  sensibility  of  children  infinitely  better 
than  Albert  were  he  fifty  times  a  father. 

"What  is  a  caution,  Uncle  Albert?"  asked  George, 
peeping  back  from  the  door. 

Auntie  Hamps  good-humouredly  warned  the  child  of 
the  danger  of  being  impertinent  to  his  elders : 

"George !    George !" 

"A  caution  is  a  caution  to  snakes,"  said  Albert. 
"Shoo!"  Making  a  noise  like  a  rocket,  he  feinted  to 
pursue  the  boy  with  violence. 

Mr.  Peartree  laughed  rather  loudly,  and  rather  like 
a  human  being,  at  the  word  "snakes."  Albert  Ben- 
bow's  flashes  of  humour,  indeed,  seemed  to  surprise 
him,  if  only  for  an  instant,  out  of  his  attitudinarianism. 

Clara  smiled,  flattered  by  the  power  of  her  husband 
to  reveal  the  humanity  of  the  parson. 

"Albert's  so  good  with  children,"  she  said.  "He 
always  knows  exactly  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  leaving 
what  he  knew  exactly  to  the  listeners'  imagination. 

Uncle  Albert  and  George  could  be  heard  scuffling 
in  the  hall. 

Auntie  Hamps  rose  with  a  gentle  sigh,  saying: 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  join  the  others." 

Her  social  sense,  which  was  pretty  well  developed, 
had  at  last  prevailed. 

The  sisters  Maggie  and  Clara,  one  in  light  and 
the  other  in  dark  green,  walked  out  of  the  room.  Mag- 
gie's face  had  already  stiffened  into  mute  constraint, 
and  Clara's  into  self-importance,  at  the  prospect  of 
meeting  the  general  company. 

m 

Auntie  Hamps  held  back,  and  Edwin  at  once  per- 
ceived from  the  conspiratorial  glance  in  her  splendid 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  39 

eyes  that  in  suggesting  a  move  she  had  intended  to 
deceive  her  fellow-conspirator  in  life,  Clara.  But 
Auntie  Hamps  could  not  live  without  chicane.  And 
she  was  happiest  when  she  had  superimposed  chicane 
upon  chicane  in  complex  folds. 

She  put  a  ringed  hand  softly  but  arrestingly  upon 
Edwin's  arm,  and  pushed  the  door  to.  Alone  with  her 
and  the  parson,  Edwin  felt  himself  to  be  at  bay,  and  he 
drew  back  before  an  unknown  menace. 

"Edwin,  dear,"  said  she,  "Mr.  Peartree  has  something 
to  suggest  to  you.  I  was  going  to  say  4a  favour  to 
ask,'  but  I  won't  put  it  like  that.  I'm  sure  my  nephew 
will  look  upon  it  as  a  privilege.  You  know  how  much 
Mr.  Peartree  has  at  heart  the  District  Additional 
Chapels  Fund — " 

Edwin  did  not  know  how  much ;  but  he  had  heard  of 
the  Macclesfield  District  Additional  Chapels  Fund, 
Bursley  being  one  of  the  circuits  in  the  Macclesfield 
District.  Wesleyanism  finding  itself  confronted  with 
lessening  congregations  and  with  a  shortage  of  minis- 
ters, the  Macclesfield  District  had  determined  to  prove 
that  Wesleyanism  was  nevertheless  spiritually  vigorous 
by  the  odd  method  of  building  more  chapels.  Mr. 
Peartree,  inventor  of  Saturday  afternoon  Bible-Classes 
for  schoolboys,  was  one  of  the  originators  of  the  bricky 
scheme,  and  in  fact  his  lecture  upon  the  "Mantle  and 
Mission  of  Elijah"  was  to  be  in  aid  of  it.  The  next  in- 
stant Mr.  Peartree  had  invited  Edwin  to  act  as  District 
Treasurer  of  the  Fund,  the  previous  treasurer  having 
died. 

More  chicane!  The  parson's  visit,  then,  was  not  a 
mere  friendly  call,  inspired  by  the  moment.  It  was 
part  of  a  scheme.  It  had  been  planned  against  him. 
Did  they  (he  seemed  to  be  asking  himself)  think  him 
so  ingenuous,  so  simple,  as  not  to  see  through  their 


40  THESE  TWAIN 

dodge?  If  not,  then  why  the  preliminary  pretences? 
He  did  not  really  ask  himself  these  questions,  for  the 
reason  that  he  knew  the  answers  to  them.  When  a 
piece  of  chicane  had  succeeded  Auntie  Hamps  forgot 
it,  and  expected  others  to  forget  it, — or  at  any  rate 
she  dared,  by  her  magnificent  front,  anybody  on  earth 
to  remind  her  of  it.  She  was  quite  indifferent  whether 
Edwin  saw  through  her  dodge  or  not. 

"You're  so  good  at  business,"  said  she. 

Ah!  She  would  insist  on  the  business  side  of  the 
matter,  affecting  to  ignore  the  immense  moral  sig- 
nificance which  would  be  attached  to  Edwin's  accept- 
ance of  the  office!  Were  he  to  yield,  the  triumph  for 
Methodism  would  ring  through  the  town.  He  read  all 
her  thoughts.  Nothing  could  break  down  her  magnifi- 
cent front.  She  had  cornered  him  by  a  device ;  she  had 
him  at  bay;  and  she  counted  on  his  weak  good-nature, 
on  his  easy-going  cowardice,  for  a  victory. 

Mr.  Peartree  talked.  Mr.  Peartree  expressed  his 
certitude  that  Edwin  was  "with  them  at  heart,"  and 
his  absolute  reliance  upon  Edwin's  sense  of  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  a  man  in  his,  Edwin's,  position.  Auntie 
Hamps  recalled  with  fervour  Edwin's  early  activities 
in  Methodism — the  Young  Men's  Debating  Society, 
for  example,  which  met  at  six  o'clock  on  frosty  winter 
mornings  for  the  proving  of  the  faith  by  dialectics. 

And  Edwin  faltered  in  his  speech. 

"You  ought  to  get  Albert,"  he  feebly  suggested. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Auntie.  "Albert  is  grand  in  his 
own  line.  But  for  this,  we  want  a  man  like  you." 

It  was  a  master-stroke.  Edwin  had  the  illusion  of 
trembling,  and  yet  he  knew  that  he  did  not  tremble,  even 
inwardly.  He  seemed  to  see  the  forces  of  evolution  and 
the  forces  of  reaction  ranged  against  each  other  in  a  su- 
preme crisis.  He  seemed  to  see  the  alternative  of  two  fu- 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  41 

tures  for  himself — and  in  one  he  would  he  a  humiliated 
and  bored  slave,  and  in  the  other  a  fine,  reckless  ensign 
of  freedom.  He  seemed  to  be  doubtful  of  his  own  cour- 
age. But  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he  was  not  doubtful. 
He  remembered  all  the  frightful  and  degrading  ennui 
which  when  he  was  young  he  had  suffered  as  a  martyr  to 
Wesleyanism  and  dogma,  all  the  sinister  deceptions 
which  he  had  had  to  practise  and  which  had  been  prac- 
tised upon  him.  He  remembered  his  almost  life-long  in- 
tense hatred  of  Mr.  Peartree.  And  he  might  have 
clenched  his  hands  bitterly  and  said  with  homicidal  ani- 
mosity :  "Now  I  will  pay  you  out !  And  I  will  tell  you 
the  truth !  And  I  will  wither  you  up  and  incinerate  you, 
and  be  revenged  for  everything  in  one  single  sentence !" 
But  he  felt  no  bitterness,  and  his  animosity  was  dead. 
At  the  bottom  of  his  soul  there  was  nothing  but  a  bland 
indifference  that  did  not  even  scorn. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  shan't  be  your  treasurer. 
You  must  ask  somebody  else." 

A  vast  satisfaction  filled  him.  The  refusal  was  so 
easy,  the  opposing  forces  so  negligible. 

Auntie  Hamps  and  Mr.  Peartree  knew  nothing  of 
the  peculiar  phenomena  Induced  in  Edwin's  mind  by 
the  first  sight  of  the  legendary  Abel  Peartree  after 
twenty  years.  But  Auntie  Hamps,  though  puzzled  for 
an  explanation,  comprehended  that  she  was  decisively 
beaten.  The  blow  was  hard.  Nevertheless  she  did  not 
wince.  The  superb  pretence  must  be  kept  up,  and  she 
kept  it  up.  She  smiled  and,  tossing  her  curls,  checked 
Edwin  with  cheerful,  indomitable  rapidity. 

"Now,  now!  Don't  decide  at  once.  Think  it  over 
very  carefully,  and  we  shall  ask  you  again.  Mr.  Pear- 
tree  will  write  to  you.  I  feel  sure  .  .  ." 

Appearances  were  preserved. 

The  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  Hilda,  who  came  in 


42  THESE  TWAIN 

excited,  gay,  with  sparkling  eyes,  humming  an  air.  She 
had  protested  vehemently  against  an  A*.  Home.  She 
had  said  again  and  again  that  the  idea  oi  an  At  Home 
was  abhorrent  to  her,  and  that  she  hated  all  such  whole- 
sale formal  hospitalities  and  could  not  bear  "people." 
And  yet  now  she  was  enchanted  with  her  situation  as 
hostess — delighted  with  herself  and  her  rich  dress, 
almost  ecstatically  aware  of  her  own  attractiveness  and 
domination.  The  sight  of  her  gave  pleasure  and  com- 
municated zest.  Mature,  she  was  yet  only  beginning 
life.  And  as  she  glanced  with  secret  condescension  at 
the  listless  Mr.  Peartree  she  seemed  to  say :  "What  is 
all  this  talk  of  heaven  and  hell?  I  am  in  love  with  life 
and  the  senses,  and  everything  is  lawful  to  me,  and  I 
am  above  you."  And  even  Auntie  Hamps,  though  one 
of  the  most  self-sufficient  creatures  that  ever  lived, 
envied  in  her  glorious  decay  the  young  maturity  of 
sensuous  Hilda. 

"Well,"  said  Hilda.  "What's  going  on  here? 
They're  all  gone  mad  about  missing  words  in  the  draw- 
ing-room." 

She  smiled  splendidly  at  Edwin,  whose  pride  in  her 
thrilled  him.  Her  superiority  to  other  women  was 
patent.  She  made  other  women  seem  negative.  In  fact, 
she  was  a  tingling  woman  before  she  was  anything 
else — that  was  it!  He  compared  her  with  Clara,  who 
was  now  nothing  but  a  mother,  and  to  Maggie,  who  had 
never  been  anything  at  all. 

Mr.  Peartree  made  the  mistake  of  telling  her  the 
subject  of  the  conversation.  She  did  not  wait  to  hear 
what  Edwin's  answer  had  been. 

She  said  curtly,  and  with  finality : 

"Oh,  no !    I  won't  have  it." 

Edwin  did  not  quite  like  this.  The  matter  con- 
cerned him  alone,  and  he  was  an  absolutely  free  agent. 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  43 

She  ought  to  have  phrased  her  objection  differently. 
For  example,  she  might  have  said :  "I  hope  he  has  re- 
fused." 

Still,  his  annoyance  was  infinitesimal. 

"The  poor  boy  works  quite  hard  enough  as  it  is," 
she  added,  with  delicious  caressing  intonation  of  the 
first  words. 

He  liked  that.  But  she  was  confusing  the  issue. 
She  always  would  confuse  the  issue.  It  was  not  because 
the  office  would  involve  extra  work  for  him  that  he  had 
declined  the  invitation,  as  she  well  knew. 

Of  course  Auntie  Hamps  said  in  a  flash : 

"If  it  means  overwork  for  him  I  shouldn't  dream — " 
She  was  putting  the  safety  of  appearances  beyond 
doubt. 

"By  the  way,  Auntie,"  Hilda  continued.  "What's 
the  trouble  about  the  pew  down  at  chapel?  Both  Clara 
and  Maggie  have  mentioned  it." 

"Trouble,  my  dear?"  exclaimed  Auntie  Hamps,  justi- 
fiably shocked  that  Hilda  should  employ  such  a  word 
in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Peartree.  But  Hilda  was  apt 
to  be  headlong. 

To  the  pew  originally  taken  by  Edwin's  father,  and 
since  his  death  standing  in  Edwin's  name,  Clara  had 
brought  her  husband ;  and  although  it  was  a  long  pew, 
the  fruits  of  the  marriage  had  gradually  filled  it,  so  that 
if  Edwin  chanced  to  go  to  chapel  there  was  not  too 
much  room  for  him  in  the  pew,  which  presented  the 
appearance  of  a  second-class  railway  carriage  crowded 
with  season-ticket  holders.  Albert  Benbow  had  sug- 
gested that  Edwin  should  yield  up  the  pew  to  the 
Benbows,  and  take  a  smaller  pew  for  himself  and  Hilda 
and  George.  But  the  women  had  expressed  fear  lest 
Edwin  "might  not  like"  this  break  in  a  historic  tradi- 
tion, and  Albert  Benbow  had  been  forbidden  to  put 


44?  THESE  TWAIN 

forward  the  suggestion  until  the  diplomatic  sex  had 
examined  the  ground. 

"We  shall  be  only  too  pleased  for  Albert  to  take 
over  the  pew,"  said  Hilda. 

"But  have  you  chosen  another  pew?"  Mrs.  Hamps 
looked  at  Edwin. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Hilda  lightly. 

"But—" 

"Now,  Auntie,"  the  tingling  woman  warned  Auntie 
Hamps  as  one  powerful  individuality  may  warn  an- 
other, "don't  worry  about  us.  You  know  we're  not 
great  chapel-goer s." 

She  spoke  the  astounding  words  gaily,  but  firmly. 
She  could  be  firm,  and  even  harsh,  in  her  triumphant 
happiness.  Edwin  knew  that  she  detested  Auntie 
Hamps.  Auntie  Hamps  no  doubt  also  knew  it.  In 
their  mutual  smilings,  so  affable,  so  hearty,  so  appre- 
ciative, apparently  so  impulsive,  the  hostility  between 
them  gleamed  mysteriously  like  lightning  in  sunlight. 

"Mrs.  Edwin's  family  were  Church  of  England," 
said  Auntie  Hamps,  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Peartree. 

"Nor  great  church-goers,  either,"  Hilda  finished 
cheerfully. 

No  woman  had  ever  made  such  outrageous  remarks 
in  the  Five  Towns  before.  A  quarter  of  a  century  ago 
a  man  might  have  said  as  much,  without  suffering  in 
esteem — might  indeed  have  earned  a  certain  intellectual 
prestige  by  the  declaration ;  but  it  was  otherwise  with  a 
woman.  Both  Mrs.  Hamps  and  the  minister  thought 
that  Hilda  was  not  going  the  right  way  to  live  down  her 
dubious  past.  Even  Edwin  in  his  pride  was  flurried. 
Great  matters,  however,  had  been  accomplished.  Not 
only  had  the  attack  of  Auntie  Hamps  and  Mr.  Peartree 
been  defeated,  but  the  defence  had  become  an  onslaught. 
Not  only  was  he  not  the  treasurer  of  the  District 


ATTACK  AND  REPULSE  45 

Additional  Chapels  Fund,  but  he  had  practically  ceased 
to  be  a  member  of  the  congregation.  He  was  free  with 
a  freedom  which  he  had  never  had  the  audacity  to 
hope  for.  It  was  incredible!  Yet  there  it  was!  A 
word  said,  bravely,  in  a  particular  tone, — and  a  new 
epoch  was  begun.  The  pity  was  that  he  had  not  done 
it  all  himself.  Hilda's  courage  had  surpassed  his  own. 
Women  were  astounding.  They  were  disconcerting 
too.  His  manly  independence  was  ever  so  little  wounded 
by  Hilda's  boldness  in  initiative  on  their  joint  behalf. 

"Do  come  and  take  something,  Auntie,"  said  Hilda, 
with  the  most  winning,  the  most  loving  inflection. 

Auntie  Hamps  passed  out. 

Hilda  turned  back  into  the  room:  "Do  go  with 
Auntie,  Mr.  Peartree.  I  must  just — "  She  affected 
to  search  for  something  on  the  mantelpiece. 

Mr.  Peartree  passed  out.  He  was  unmoved.  He  did 
not  care  in  his  heart.  And  as  Edwin  caught  his  in- 
different eye,  with  that  "it's-all-one-to-me"  glint  in  it, 
his  soul  warmed  again  slightly  to  Mr.  Peartree.  And 
further,  Mr.  Peartree's  aloof  unworldliness,  his  per- 
sonal practical  unconcern  with  money,  feasting,  ambi- 
tion, and  all  the  grosser  forms  of  self-satisfaction,  made 
Edwin  feel  somewhat  a  sensual  average  man  and  accord- 
ingly humiliated  him. 

As  soon  as,  almost  before,  Mr.  Peartree  was  beyond 
the  door,  Hilda  leaped  at  Edwin,  and  kissed  him  vio- 
lently. The  door  was  not  closed.  He  could  hear  the 
varied  hum  of  the  party. 

"I  had  to  kiss  you  while  it's  all  going  on,"  she  whis- 
pered. Ardent  vitality  shimmered  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   WORD 


ADA  was  just  crossing  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room, 
a  telegram  on  a  salver  in  her  red  hand. 

"Here  you  are,  Ada,"  said  Edwin,  stopping  her, 
with  a  gesture  towards  the  telegram. 

"It's  for  Mr.  Tom  Swetnam,  sir." 

Edwin  and  Hilda  followed  the  starched  and  fussy 
girl  into  the  drawing-room,  in  which  were  about  a  dozen 
people,  including  Fearns,  the  lawyer,  and  his  wife,  the 
recently  married  Stephen  and  Vera  Cheswardine,  sev- 
eral Swetnams,  and  Janet  Orgreave,  who  sat  at  the 
closed  piano,  smiling  vaguely. 

Tom  Swetnam,  standing  up,  took  the  telegram. 

"I  never  knew  they  delivered  telegrams  at  this  time 
o'  night,"  said  Fearns  sharply,  looking  at  his  watch. 
He  was  wont  to  keep  a  careful  eye  on  the  organisation 
of  railways,  ships,  posts,  and  other  contrivances  for 
the  shifting  of  matter  from  one  spot  to  another.  An 
exacting  critic  of  detail,  he  was  proud  of  them  in  the 
mass,  and  called  them  civilisation. 

"They  don't,"  said  Tom  Swetnam  naughtily,  glad 
to  plague  a  man  older  than  himself,  and  the  father  of 
a  family.  Tom  was  a  mere  son,  but  he  had  travelled, 
and  was,  indeed,  just  returned  from  an  excursion 
through  Scandinavia.  "Observe  there's  no  deception. 
The  envelope's  been  opened.  Moreover,  it's  addressed 

46 


THE  WORD  47 

to  Ben  Clewlow,  not  to  me.  Ben's  sent  it  up.  I  asked 
him  to.  Now,  we'll  see." 

Having  displayed  the  envelope  like  a  conjurer,  he 
drew  forth  the  telegram,  and  prepared  to  read  it  aloud. 
One  half  of  the  company  was  puzzled ;  the  other  half 
showed  an  instructed  excitement.  Tom  read  the  mes- 
sage: 

"  'Twenty-seven  pounds  ten  nine.  Philosophers  tell 
us  that  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  Never- 
theless it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  the  discovery  of 
gold  at  Barmouth,  together  with  two  earthquake  shocks 
following  each  other  in  quick  succession  in  the  same 
district,  does  not  constitute,  in  the  history  of  the  gal- 
lant little  Principality,  a  double  event  of  unique — '  " 
He  stopped. 

Vera  Cheswardine,  pretty,  fluffy,  elegant,  cried  out 
with  all  the  impulsiveness  of  her  nature: 

"Novelty !" 

"Whatever  is  it  all  about?"  mildly  asked  Mrs.  Fearns, 
a  quiet  and  dignified,  youngish  woman  whom  mother- 
hood had  made  somewhat  absent-minded  when  she  was 
away  from  her  children. 

"Missing-word  competition,"  Fearns  explained  to 
her  with  curt,  genial  superiority.  He  laughed  out- 
right. "You  do  go  it,  some  of  you  chaps,"  he  said. 
"Why,  that  telegram  cost  over  a  couple  of  bob,  I  bet !" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Tom  Swetnam,  "three  of  us 
share  it.  We  get  it  thirty-six  hours  before  the  paper's 
out — fellow  in  London — and  there's  so  much  mol'e  time 
to  read  the  dictionary.  No  use  half  doing  a  thing! 
Twenty-seven  pounds  odd !  Not  a  bad  share  this  week, 
eh?" 

"Won  anything?" 

"Rather.  We  had  the  wire  about  the  winning  word 
this  morning.  We'd  sent  it  in  four  times.  That  makes 


48  THESE  TWAIN 

about  £110,  doesn't  it?  Between  three  of  us.  We  sent 
in  nearly  two  hundred  postal  orders.  Which  leaves 
£100  clear.  Thirty- three  quid  apiece,  net." 

He  tried  to  speak  calmly  and  nonchalantly,  but  his 
excitement  was  extreme.  The  two  younger  Swetnams 
regarded  him  with  awe.  Everybody  was  deeply  im- 
pressed by  the  prodigious  figures,  and  in  many  hearts 
envy,  covetousness,  and  the  wild  desire  for  a  large, 
free  life  of  luxury  were  aroused. 

"Seems  to  me  you've  reduced  this  game  to  a  science," 
said  Edwin. 

"Well,  we  have,"  Tom  Swetnam  admitted.  "We  send 
in  every  possible  word." 

"It's  a  mere  thousand  per  cent  profit  per  week," 
murmured  Fearns.  "At  the  rate  of  fifty  thousand  per 
cent  per  annum." 

Albert  Benbow,  entering,  caught  the  last  phrase, 
which  very  properly  whetted  his  curiosity  as  a  man  of 
business.  Clara  followed  him  closely.  On  nearly  all 
ceremonial  occasions  these  two  had  an  instinctive  need 
of  each  other's  presence  and  support ;  and  if  Albert  did 
not  run  after  Clara,  Clara  ran  after  Albert. 


n 

Then  came  the  proof  of  the  genius,  the  cynicism 
and  the  insight  of  the  leviathan  newspaper-proprietor 
who  h^i  invented  the  dodge  of  inviting  his  readers  to 
risk  a  shilling  and  also  to  buy  a  coupon  for  the  privilege 
of  supplying  a  missing  word,  upon  the  understanding 
that  the  shillings  of  those  who  supplied  the  wrong  word 
should  be  taken  for  ever  away  from  them  and  given  to 
those  who  supplied  the  right  word.  The  entire  com- 
pany in  the  Clayhanger  drawing-room  was  absorbed 
in  the  tremendous  missing-word  topic,  and  listened  to 


THE  WORD  49 

Swetnam  as  to  a  new  prophet  bearing  the  secret  of 
eternal  felicity.  The  rumour  of  Swetnam's  triumph 
drew  people  out  of  the  delectable  dining-room  to  listen 
to  his  remarks;  and  among  these  was  Auntie  Hamps. 
So  it  was  in  a  thousand,  in  ten  thousand,  in  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  homes  of  all  kinds  throughout  the 
kingdom.  The  leviathan  journalist's  readers  (though 
as  a  rule  they  read  nothing  in  his  paper  save  the  trun- 
cated paragraph  and  the  rules  of  the  competition)  had 
grown  to  be  equivalent  to  the  whole  British  public.  And 
he  not  only  held  them  but  he  had  overshadowed  all 
other  interests  in  their  minds.  Upon  honeymoons  peo- 
ple thought  of  the  missing-word  amid  caresses,  and 
it  is  a  fact  that  people  had  died  with  the  missing  word 
on  their  lips.  Sane  adults  of  both  sexes  read  the  dic- 
tionary through  from  end  to  end  every  week  with  an 
astounding  conscientiousness.  The  leviathan  news- 
paper-proprietor could  not  buy  enough  paper,  nor  hire 
sufficient  presses,  to  meet  the  national  demands.  And 
no  wonder,  seeing  that  any  small  news-agent  in  a  side 
street  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  receive  an  order 
from  an  impassioned  student  of  periodical  literature 
for  more  copies  of  one  issue  of  the  journal  than  the 
whole  town  had  been  used  to  buy  before  the  marvellous 
invention  of  the  missing-word.  The  post  office  was 
incommoded;  even  the  Postmaster  General  was  incom- 
moded, and  only  by  heroical  efforts  and  miraculous 
feats  of  resourcefulness  did  he  save  himself  from  the 
ignominy  of  running  out  of  shilling  postal  orders.  Post 
office  girls  sold  shilling  postal  orders  with  a  sarcastic 
smile,  with  acerbity,  with  reluctance, — it  was  naught  to 
them  that  the  revenue  was  benefited  and  the  pressure  on 
taxpayers  eased.  Employers  throughout  the  islands 
suffered  vast  losses  owing  to  the  fact  that  for  months 
their  offices  and  factories  were  inhabited  not  by  clerks 


50  THESE  TWAIN 

and  other  employees,  but  by  wage-paid  monomaniacs 
who  did  naught  but  read  dictionaries  and  cut  out  and 
fill  up  coupons.  And  over  all  the  land  there  hung  the 
dark  incredible  menace  of  an  unjust  prosecution  under 
the  Gambling  Laws,  urged  by  interfering  busybodies 
who  would  not  let  a  nation  alone. 

"And  how  much  did  you  make  last  week,  Mr.  Swet- 
nam?"  judicially  asked  Albert  Benbow,  who  was  rather 
pleased  and  flattered,  as  an  active  Wesleyan,  to  rub 
shoulders  with  frank  men  of  the  world  like  Tom.  As 
an  active  Wesleyan  he  had  hitherto  utterly  refused  to 
listen  to  the  missing-word;  but  now  it  seemed  to  be 
acquiring  respectability  enough  for  his  ears. 

Swetnam  replied  with  a  casual  air: 

"We  didn't  make  much  last  week.  We  won  some- 
thing, of  course.  We  win  every  week;  that's  a  mathe- 
matical certainty — but  sometimes  the  expenses  mount 
up  a  bit  higher  than  the  receipts.  It  depends  on  the 
word.  If  it's  an  ordinary  word  that  everybody  chooses, 
naturally  the  share  is  a  small  one  because  there  are  so 
many  winners."  He  gave  no  more  exact  details. 

Clara  breathed  a  disillusioned  "Oh!"  implying  that 
she  had  known  there  must  be  some  flaw  in  the  scheme — 
and  her  husband  had  at  once  put  his  finger  on  it. 

But  her  husband,  with  incipient  enthusiasm  for  the 
word,  said:  "Well,  it  stands  to  reason  they  must  take 
one  week  with  another,  and  average  it  out." 

"Nowj  Albert!  Now,  Albert!"  Edwin  warned  him. 
"No  gambling." 

Albert  replied  with  some  warmth :  "I  don't  see  that 
there's  any  gambling  in  it.  Appears  to  me  that  it's 
chiefly  skill  and  thoroughness  that  does  the  trick." 

"Gambling!"  murmured  Tom  Swetnam  shortly.  "Of 
course  it's  not  gambling." 

"No!" 


THE  WORD  51 

"Well,"  said  Vera  Cheswardine,  "I  say  'novelty.' 
'A  double  event  of  unique  novelty.'  That's  it." 

"I  shouldn't  go  nap  on  'novelty,'  if  I  were  you," 
said  Tom  Swetnam,  the  expert. 

Tom  read  the  thing  again. 

"Novelty,"  Vera  repeated.  "I  know  it's  novelty. 
I'm  always  right,  aren't  I,  Stephen?"  She  looked 
round.  "Ask  Stephen." 

"You  were  right  last  week  but  one,  my  child,"  said 
Stephen. 

"And  did  you  make  anything?"  Clara  demanded 
eagerly. 

"Only  fifteen  shillings,"  said  Vera  discontentedly. 
"But  if  Stephen  had  listened  to  me  we  should  have 
made  lots." 

Albert  Benbow's  interest  in  the  word  was  strength- 
ened. 

Fearns,  leaning  carefully  back  in  his  chair,  asked 
with  fine  indifference :  "By  the  way,  what  is  this  week's 
word,  Tom?  I  haven't  your  secret  sources  of  informa- 
tion. I  have  to  wait  for  the  paper." 

"  'Unaccountably,'  "  said  Tom.  "Had  you  anything 
on  it?" 

"No,"  Fearns  admitted.  "I've  caught  a  cold  this 
week,  it  seems." 

Albert  Benbow  stared  at  him.  Here  was  another 
competitor — and  as  acute  a  man  of  business  as  you 
would  find  in  the  Five  Towns ! 

"Me,  too !"  said  Edwin,  smiling  like  a  culprit. 

Hilda  sprang  up  gleefully,  and  pointed  at  him  a 
finger  of  delicious  censure. 

"Oh !  You  wicked  sinner !  You  never  told  me  you'd 
gone  in  !  You  deceitful  old  thing !" 

"Well,  it  was  a  man  at  the  shop  who  would  have  me 
try,"  Edwin  boyishly  excused  himself. 


52  THESE  TWAIN 

m 

Hilda's  vivacity  enchanted  Edwin.  The  charm  of 
her  reproof  was  simply  exquisite  in  its  good-nature  and 
in  the  elegance  of  its  gesture.  The  lingering  taste  of 
the  feverish  kiss  she  had  given  him  a  few  minutes  earlier 
bemused  him  and  he  flushed.  To  conceal  his  incon- 
venient happiness  in  the  thought  of  his  wife  he  turned 
to  open  the  new  enlarged  window  that  gave  on  the  gar- 
den. (He  had  done  away  with  the  old  garden-entrance 
of  the  house,  and  thrown  the  side  corridor  into  the 
drawing-room.)  Then  he  moved  towards  Janet 
Orgreave,  who  was  still  seated  at  the  closed  piano. 

"Your  father  isn't  coming,  I  suppose?"  he  asked  her. 

The  angelic  spinster,  stylishly  dressed  in  white,  and 
wearing  as  usual  her  kind  heart  on  her  sleeve,  smiled 
with  soft  benignity,  and  shook  her  head. 

"He  told  me  to  tell  you  he  was  too  old.  He  is,  you 
know." 

"And  how's  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well,  considering.  .  .  »  I  really  ought 
not  to  leave  them." 

"Oh,  yes !"  Edwin  protested.  The  momentary  vision 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Orgreave  in  the  large  house  close  by, 
now  practically  deserted  by  all  their  children  except 
Janet,  saddened  him. 

Then  a  loud  voice  dominated  the  general  conversa- 
tion behind  him: 

"I  say,  this  is  a  bit  stiff.  I  did  think  I  should  be 
free  of  it  here.  But  no !  Same  old  missing-word  every- 
where! What  is  it  this  week,  Swetnam?" 

It  was  Johnnie  Orgreave,  appreciably  younger  than 
his  sister,  but  a  full-grown  man  of  the  world,  and 
somewhat  dandiacal.  After  shaking  hands  with  Hilda 
he  came  straight  to  Edwin. 


THE  WORD  53 

"Awfully  sorry  I'm  so  late,  old  chap.  How  do, 
Jan?" 

"Of  course  you  are,"  Edwin  quizzed  him  like  an 
uncle. 

"Where's  Ingpen?" 

"Not  come." 

"Not  come!  He  said  he  should  be  here  at  eight. 
Just  like  him!"  said  Johnnie.  "I  expect  he's  had  a 
puncture." 

"I've  been  looking  out  for  him  every  minute,"  Edwin 
muttered. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  Albert  Benbow,  stocky 
and  vulgar,  but  feeling  himself  more  and  more  a  man 
of  the  world  among  men  and  women  of  the  world,  was 
proclaiming,  not  without  excitement: 

"Well,  I  agree  with  Mrs.  Cheswardine.  'Novelty'  's 
much  more  likely  than  'interest.'  'Interest'  's  the  wrong 
kind  of  word  altogether.  It  doesn't  agree  with  the 
beginning  of  the  paragraph." 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Benbow,"  Vera  encouraged  him 
with  flirtatious  dimples.  "You  put  your  money  on  me, 
even  if  my  own  husband  won't."  Albert  as  a  dowdy 
dissenter  was  quite  out  of  her  expensive  sphere,  but  to 
Vera  any  man  was  a  man. 

"Now,  Albert,"  Clara  warned  him,  "if  you  win  any- 
thing, you  must  give  it  to  me  for  the  new  perambula- 
tor." 

("Dash  that  girl's  infernal  domesticity!"  thought 
Edwin  savagely.) 

"Who  says  I'm  going  in  for  it,  missis?"  Albert  chal- 
lenged. 

"I  only  say  if  you  do,  dear,"  Clara  said  smoothly. 

"Then  I  will!'9  Albert  announced  the  great  decision. 
"Just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  I  will.  Thank  ye,  Mrs. 
Cheswardine." 


54  THESE  TWAIN 

He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Cheswardine  as  a  knight  at  his 
unattainable  mistress.  Indeed  the  decision  had  in  it 
something  of  the  chivalrous;  the  attention  of  slim 
provocative  Vera,  costliest  and  most  fashionably 
dressed  woman  in  Bursley,  had  stirred  his  fancy  to 
wander  far  beyond  its  usual  limits. 

"Albert !    Well,  I  never !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamps. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you  Auntie?"  said  Albert 
jovially,  standing  over  her. 

"Not  if  it's  not  gambling,"  said  Mrs.  Hamps  stoutly. 
"And  I  hope  it  isn't.  And  it  would  be  very  nice  for 
Clara,  I'm  sure,  if  you  won." 

"Hurrah  for  Mrs.  Hamps!"  Johnnie  Orgreave  al- 
most yelled. 

At  the  same  moment,  Janet  Orgreave,  swinging 
round  on  the  music-stool,  lifted  the  lid  of  the  piano, 
and,  still  with  her  soft,  angelic  smile,  played  loudly 
and  dashingly  the  barbaric,  Bacchic,  orgiastic  melody 
which  had  just  recently  inflamed  England,  Scotland, 
Ireland,  Wales,  and  the  Five  Towns — the  air  which 
was  unlike  anything  ever  heard  before  by  British 
ears,  and  which  meant  nothing  whatever  that  could  be 
avowed,  the  air  which  heralded  social  revolutions  and 
inaugurated  a  new  epoch.  And  as  the  ringed  fingers 
of  the  quiet,  fading  spinster  struck  out  the  shocking 
melody,  Vera  Cheswardine  and  one  or  two  others  who 
had  been  to  London  and  there  seen  the  great  legendary 
figure,  Lottie  Collins,  hummed  more  or  less  brazenly 
the  syllables  heavy  with  mysterious  significance: 

"Tarara-boom-deay! 
Tarara^boom-deay! 
Tarara-boom-deay! 
Tarara-boom-deay!" 


THE  WORD  55 

Upon  this  entered  Mr.  Peartree,  like  a  figure  of 
retribution,  and  silence  fell. 

"I'm  afraid  .  .  ."  he  began.     "Mr.  Benbow." 

They  spoke  together. 

A  scared  servant-girl  had  come  up  from  the  Benbow 
home  with  the  affrighting  news  that  Bert  Benbow,  who 
had  gone  to  bed  with  the  other  children  as  usual,  was 
not  in  his  bed  and  could  not  be  discovered  in  the  house. 
Mr.  Peartree,  being  in  the  hall,  had  chosen  himself  to 
bear  the  grievous  tidings  to  the  drawing-room.  In  an 
instant  Albert  and  Clara  were  parents  again.  Both 
had  an  idea  that  the  unprecedented,  incomprehensible 
calamity  was  a  heavenly  dispensation  to  punish  them 
for  having  trifled  with  the  missing-word.  Their  sudden 
seriousness  was  terrific.  They  departed  immediately, 
without  ceremony  of  any  sort.  Mrs.  Hamps  said  that 
she  really  ought  to  go  too,  and  Maggie  said  that  as 
Auntie  Hamps  was  going  she  also  would  go.  The  par- 
son said  that  he  had  already  stayed  longer  than  he 
ought,  in  view  of  another  engagement,  and  he  followed. 
Edwin  and  Hilda  dutifully  saw  them  off  and  were  as 
serious  as  the  circumstances  demanded.  But  those  who 
remained  in  the  drawing-room  sniggered,  and  when 
Hilda  rejoined  them  she  laughed.  The  house  felt 
lighter.  Edwin,  remaining  longest  at  the  door,  saw  a 
bicyclist  on  one  of  the  still  quaint  pneumatic-tyred 
"safety"  bicycles,  coming  along  behind  a  "King  of  the 
Road"  lamp.  The  rider  dismounted  at  the  corner. 

"That  you,  Mr.  Ingpen?" 

Said  a  blithe  voice: 

"How  d'ye  do,  host?  When  you've  known  me  a  bit 
longer  you'll  learn  that  I  always  manage  to  arrive  just 
when  other  people  are  leaving." 


CHAPTER   V 

TERTIUS    INGPEtf 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  was  the  new  District  Factory  In- 
spector, a  man  of  about  thirty-five,  neither  fair  nor 
dark,  neither  tall  nor  short.  He  was  a  native  of  the 
district,  having  been  born  somewhere  in  the  aristocratic 
regions  between  Knype  and  the  lordly  village  of  Sneyd, 
but  what  first  struck  the  local  observer  in  him  was  that 
his  speech  had  none  of  the  local  accent.  In  the  pursuit 
of  his  vocation  he  had  lived  in  other  places  than  the 
Five  Towns.  For  example,  in  London,  where  he  had 
become  acquainted  with  Edwin's  friend,  Charlie  Or- 
greave,  the  doctor.  When  Ingpen  received  a  goodish 
appointment  amid  the  industrial  horrors  of  his  birth, 
Charlie  Orgreave  recommended  him  to  Edwin,  and  Ed- 
win and  Ingpen  had  met  once,  under  arrangement  made 
by  Johnnie  Orgreave.  It  was  Johnnie  who  had  im- 
pulsively suggested  in  Ingpen's  presence  that  Ingpen 
should  be  invited  to  the  At  Home.  Edwin,  rather 
intimidated  by  Ingpen's  other- wo rldliness,  had  said: 
"You'll  run  up  against  a  mixed  lot."  But  Ingpen, 
though  sternly  critical  of  local  phenomena,  seemed  to 
be  ready  to  meet  social  adventures  in  a  broad  and  even 
eager  spirit  of  curiosity  concerning  mankind.  He  was 
not  uncomely,  and  he  possessed  a  short  silky  beard  of 
which  secretly  he  was  not  less  proud  than  of  his  strik- 
ing name.  He  wore  a  neat  blue  suit,  with  the  trousers 
fastened  tightly  round  the  ankles  for  bicycle-riding, 

56 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  57 

and  thick  kid  gloves.  He  took  off  one  glove  to  shake 
hands,  and  then,  having  leisurely  removed  the  other, 
and  talking  all  the  time,  he  bent  down  with  care  and 
loosed  his  trousers  and  shook  them  into  shape. 

"Now  what  about  this  jigger?"  he  asked,  while  still 
bending.  "I  don't  care  to  leave  it  anywhere.  It's  a 
good  jigger." 

As  it  leaned  on  one  pedal  against  the  kerb  of  Hulton 
Street,  the  strange-looking  jigger  appeared  to  be  at 
any  rate  a  very  dirty  jigger.  Fastened  under  the 
saddle  were  a  roll  of  paper  and  a  mackintosh. 

"There  are  one  or  two  ordinaries  knocking  about  the 
place,"  said  Edwin,  "but  we  haven't  got  a  proper 
bicycle-house.  I'll  find  a  place  for  it  somewhere  in  the 
garden."  He  lifted  the  front  wheel. 

"Don't  trouble,  please.  I'll  take  it,"  said  Ingpen, 
and  before  picking  up  the  machine  blew  out  the  lamp, 
whose  extinction  left  a  great  darkness  down  the  slope 
of  Hulton  Street. 

"You've  got  a  very  nice  place  here.  Too  central 
for  me,  of  course !"  Ingpen  began,  after  they  had  in- 
sinuated the  bicycle  through  narrow  paths  to  the  back 
of  the  house. 

Edwin  was  leading  him  along  the  side  of  the  lawn 
furthest  away  from  Trafalgar  Road.  Certainly  the 
property  had  the  air  of  being  a  very  nice  place.  The 
garden  with  its  screen  of  high  rustling  trees  seemed 
spacious  and  mysterious  in  the  gloom,  and  the  lighted 
windows  of  the  house  produced  an  effect  of  much  rich- 
ness— especially  the  half-open  window  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Fearns  and  Cheswardine  were  standing  in  front 
of  it  chatting  (doubtless  of  affairs)  with  that  im- 
portant adult  air  which  Edwin  himself  could  never 
successfully  imitate.  Behind  them  were  bright  women, 
and  the  brilliant  chandelier.  The  piano  faintly 


58  THESE  TWAIN 

sounded.  Edwin  was  proud  of  his  very  nice  place. 
"How  strange !"  he  thought.  "This  is  all  mine !  These 
are  my  guests !  And  my  wife  is  mine !" 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  answered  Ingpen's  criticism  with 
false  humility.  "I've  no  choice.  I've  got  to  be  central." 

Ingpen  answered  pleasantly. 

"I  take  your  word  for  it ;  but  I  don't  see." 

The  bicycle  was  carefully  bestowed  by  its  groping 
owner  in  a  small  rustic  arbour  which,  situated  almost 
under  the  wall  that  divided  the  Clayhanger  property 
from  the  first  cottage  in  Hulton  Street,  was  hidden 
from  the  house  by  a  clump  of  bushes. 

In  the  dark  privacy  of  this  shelter  Tertius  Ingpen 
said  in  a  reflective  tone : 

"I  understand  that  you  haven't  been  married  long, 
and  that  this  is  a  sort  of  function  to  inform  the  world 
officially  that  you're  no  longer  what  you  were?" 

"It's  something  like  that,"  Edwin  admitted  with  a 
laugh. 

He  liked  the  quiet  intimacy  of  Ingpen's  voice,  whose 
delicate  inflections  indicated  highly  cultivated  sensibili- 
ties. And  he  thought:  "I  believe  I  shall  be  friends 
with  this  chap."  And  was  glad,  and  faith  in  Ingpen 
was  planted  in  his  heart. 

"Well,"  Ingpen  continued,  "I  wish  you  happiness. 
It  may  seem  a  strange  thing  to  say  to  a  man  in  your 
position,  but  my  opinion  is  that  the  proper  place  for 
women  is — behind  the  veil.  Only  my  personal  opinion, 
of  course!  But  I'm  entitled  to  hold  it,  and  therefore 
to  express  it."  Whatever  his  matter,  his  manner  was 
faultless. 

"Yes  ?"  Edwin  murmured  awkwardly.  What  on  earth 
did  Ingpen  expect  by  way  of  reply  to  such  a  proposi- 
tion? Surely  Ingpen  should  have  known  that  he  was 
putting  his  host  in  a  disagreeable  difficulty.  His  new- 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  59 

born  faith  in  Ingpen  felt  the  harsh  wind  of  experience 
and  shivered.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  part  of  Edwin 
that  responded  to  Ingpen's  attitude.  "Behind  the  veil." 
Yes,  something  could  be  said  for  the  proposition. 

They  left  the  arbour  in  silence.  They  had  not  gone 
more  than  a  few  steps  when  a  boy's  shrill  voice  made 
itself  heard  over  the  wall  of  the  cottage  yard. 

"Oh  Lord,  thou  'ast  said  'If  two  on  ye  sh'll  agray 
on  earth  as  touching  onything  that  they  sh'll  ask  it 
sh'll  be  done  for  them  of  my  Father  which  is  in  'eaven. 
For  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  i'  my 
name  theer  am  I  in  th'  midst  of  'em.  Oh  Lord,  George 
Edwin  Clay'anger  wants  a  two-bladed  penknife.  We 
all  three  on  us  want  ye  to  send  George  Edwin  Clay- 
'anger a  two-bladed  penknife." 

The  words  fell  with  impressive  effect  on  the  men  in 
the  garden. 

"What  the — "  Edwin  exclaimed. 

"Hsh!"  Ingpen  stopped  him  in  an  excited  whisper. 
"Don't  disturb  them  for  anything  in  the  world !" 

Silence  followed. 

Edwin  crept  away  like  a  scout  towards  a  swing 
which  he  had  arranged  for  his  friend  George  before  he 
became  the  husband  of  George's  mother.  He  climbed 
into  it  and  over  the  wall  could  just  see  three  boys' 
heads  in  the  yard  illuminated  by  a  lamp  in  the  back- 
window  of  the  cottage.  Tertius  Ingpen  joined  him,  but 
immediately  climbed  higher  on  to  the  horizontal  beam 
of  the  swing. 

"Who  are  they?"  Ingpen  asked,  restraining  his  joy 
in  the  adventure. 

"The  one  on  the  right's  my  stepson.  The  other  big 
one  is  my  sister  Clara's  child,  Bert.  I  expect  the  little 
one's  old  Clowes',  the  gravedigger's  kid.  They  say  he's 
a  regular  little  parson — probably  to  make  up  for  his 


60  THESE  TWAIN 

parents.  I  expect  they're  out  somewhere  having  a 
jollification." 

"Well,"  Ingpen  breathed.  "I  wouldn't  have  missed 
this  for  a  good  deal."  He  gave  a  deep,  almost  sound- 
less giggle. 

Edwin  was  startled — as  much  as  anything  by  the 
extraordinary  deceitfulness  of  George.  Who  could  pos- 
sibly have  guessed  from  the  boy's  demeanour  when  his 
Aunt  Clara  mentioned  Bert  to  him,  that  he  had  made 
an  outrageous  rendezvous  with  Bert  that  very  night? 
Certainly  he  had  blushed,  but  then  he  often  blushed.  Of 
course,  the  Benbows  would  assert  that  George  had  se- 
iduced  the  guileless  Bert.  Fancy  them  hunting  the  town 
for  Bert  at  that  instant!  As  regards  Peter  Clowes, 
George,  though  not  positively  forbidden  to  do  so,  had 
been  warned  against  associating  with  him — chiefly  be- 
cause of  the  bad  influence  which  Peter's  accent  would 
have  on  George's  accent.  His  mother  had  said  that  she 
could  not  understand  how  George  could  wish  to  be 
friendly  with  a  rough  little  boy  like  Peter.  Edwin, 
however,  inexperienced  as  he  was,  had  already  compre- 
hended that  children,  like  Eastern  women,  have  no 
natural  class  bias;  and  he  could  not  persuade  himself 
to  be  the  first  to  inculcate  into  George  ideas  which 
could  only  be  called  snobbish.  He  was  a  democrat. 
Nevertheless  he  did  not  like  George  to  play  with  Peter 
Clowes. 

The  small  Peter,  with  uplifted  face  and  clasped 
hands,  repeated  urgently,  passionately: 

"O  God !  We  all  three  on  us  want  ye  to  send  George 
Edwin  Clay'anger  a  two-bladed  penknife.  Now  lads, 
kneel,  and  all  three  on  us  together !" 

He  stood  between  the  taller  and  better-dressed  boys 
unashamed,  fervent,  a  born  religionist.  He  was  not 
even  praying  for  himself.  He  was  praying  out  of  his 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  61 

profound  impersonal  interest  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer. 

The  three  boys,  kneeling,  and  so  disappearing  from 
sight  behind  the  wall,  repeated  together: 

"O  God!  Please  send  George  Edwin  Clayhanger  a 
two-bladed  penknife." 

Then  George  and  Bert  stood  up  again,  shuffling 
about.  Peter  Clowes  did  not  reappear. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  whispered  Ingpen  in  a  strange, 
moved  voice,  "I've  got  to  be  God.  Here  goes!  And 
it's  practically  new,  too!" 

Edwin  in  the  darkness  could  see  him  feeling  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  then  raise  his  arm,  and,  taking 
careful  aim,  throw  in  the  direction  of  the  dimly  lighted 
yard. 

"Oh !"  came  the  cry  of  George,  in  sudden  pain. 

The  descending  penknife  had  hit  him  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  scramble  on  the  pavement  of  the  yard, 
and  some  muttered  talk.  The  group  went  to  the  back 
window  where  the  lamp  was  and  examined  the  heavenly 
penknife.  They  were  more  frightened  than  delighted 
by  the  miracle.  The  unseen  watchers  in  the  swing 
were  also  rather  frightened,  as  though  they  had  inter- 
fered irremediably  in  a  solemn  and  delicate  crisis  be- 
yond their  competence.  In  a  curious  way  they  were 
ashamed. 

"Yes,  and  what  about  me?"  said  the  voice  of  fat  Bert 
Benbow,  sulkily.  "This  is  all  very  well.  But  what 
about  me?  Ye  tried  without  me  and  ye  couldn't  do 
anything.  Now  I've  come  and  ye've  done  it.  What  am 
I  going  to  get?  Ye've  got  to  give  me  something  instead 
of  a  half-share  in  that  penknife,  George." 

George  said: 

"Let's  pray  for  something  for  you  now.  What  d'you 
want?" 

"I  want  a  bicycle.    Ye  know  what  I  want " 


62  THESE  TWAIN 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't,  Bert  Benbow!"  said  George. 
"You've  got  to  want  something  safer  than  a  bike. 
Suppose  it  comes  tumbling  down  like  the  penknife  did! 
We  shall  be  dam  well  killed." 

Tertius  Ingpen  could  not  suppress  a  snorting  giggle. 

"I  want  a  bike,"  Bert  insisted.  "And  I  don't  want 
nothin'  else." 

The  two  bigger  boys  moved  vaguely  away  from  the 
window,  and  the  little  religionist  followed  them  in  si- 
lence, ready  to  supplicate  for  whatever  they  should  de- 
cide. 

"AU  right,"  George  agreed.  "We'll  pray  for  a 
bicycle.  But  we'd  better  all  stand  as  close  as  we  can  to 
the  wall,  under  the  spouting,  in  case." 

The  ceremonial  was  recommenced. 

"No,"  Ingpen  murmured.  "I'm  not  being  God  this 
time.  It  won't  run  to  it." 

Footsteps  were  heard  on  the  lawn  behind  the  swing. 
Ingpen  slid  down  and  Edwin  jumped  down.  Johnnie 
Orgreave  was  approaching. 

"Hsh!"  Ingpen  warned  him. 

"What  are  you  chaps — " 

"Hsh !"    Ingpen  was  more  imperative. 

All  three  men  walked  away  out  of  earshot  of  the 
yard,  towards  the  window  of  the  drawing-room — John- 
nie Orgreave  mystified,  the  other  two  smiling  but  with 
spirits  disturbed.  Johnnie  heard  the  story  in  brief; 
it  was  told  to  him  in  confidence,  as  Tertius  Ingpen  held 
firmly  that  eavesdroppers,  if  they  had  any  honour  left, 
should  at  least  hold  their  tongues. 


When  Tertius  Ingpen  was  introduced  to  Hilda  in  the 
drawing-room,  the   three  men  having  entered  by   the 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  63 

French  window,  Edwin  was  startled  and  relieved  by 
the  deportment  of  the  orientalist  who  thought  that  the 
proper  place  for  women  was  behind  the  veil.  In  his 
simplicity  he  had  assumed  that  the  orientalist  would 
indicate  his  attitude  by  a  dignified  reserve.  Not  at  all ! 
As  soon  as  Ingpen  reached  Hilda's  hospitable  gaze  his 
whole  bearing  altered.  He  bowed,  with  a  deferential 
bending  that  to  an  untravelled  native  must  have  seemed 
exaggerated;  his  face  was  transformed  by  a  sweet 
smile ;  his  voice  became  the  voice  of  a  courtier ;  he  shook 
hands  with  chivalrous  solicitude  for  the  fragile  hand 
shaken.  Hilda  was  pleased  by  him,  perceiving  that  this 
man  was  more  experienced  in  the  world  than  any  of  the 
other  worldly  guests.  She  liked  that.  Ingpen's  new 
symptoms  were  modified  after  a  few  moments,  but  when 
he  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Fearns  he  reproduced  them 
in  their  original  intensity,  and  again  when  he  was  in- 
troduced to  Vera  Cheswardine. 

"Been  out  without  your  cap?"  Hilda  questioned  Ed- 
win, lifting  her  eyebrows.  She  said  it  in  order  to  say 
something,  for  the  entry  of  this  ceremonious  personage, 
who  held  all  the  advantages  of  the  native  and  of  the 
stranger,  had  a  little  overpowered  'the  company. 

"Only  just  to  see  after  Mr.  Ingpen's  machine.  Give 
me  your  cap,  Mr.  Ingpen.  I'll  hang  it  up." 

When  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room  from  the 
hatstand  Ingpen  was  talking  with  Janet  Orgreave, 
whom  he  already  knew. 

"Have  you  seen  George,  Edwin?"  Hilda  called  across 
the  drawing-room. 

"Hasn't  he  gone  to  bed?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know.  I  haven't  seen  him 
lately." 

Everyone,  except  Johnnie  Orgreave  and  a  Swetnam 
or  so,  was  preoccupied  by  the  thought  of  children,  by 


64  THESE  TWAIN 

the  thought  of  this  incalculable  and  disturbing  race 
that  with  different  standards  and  ideals  lived  so  mys- 
teriously in  and  among  their  adult  selves.  Nothing 
was  said  about  the  strange  disappearance  of  Bert  Ben- 
bow,  but  each  woman  had  it  in  mind,  and  coupled  it 
with  Hilda's  sudden  apprehension  concerning  George, 
and  imagined  weird  connections  between  the  one  and 
the  other,  and  felt  forebodings  about  children  nearer  to 
her  own  heart.  Children  dominated  the  assemblage  and, 
made  restless,  the  assemblage  collectively  felt  that  the 
moment  for  separation  approached.  The  At  Home  was 
practically  over. 

Hilda  rang  the  bell,  and  as  she  did  so  Johnnie  Or- 
greave  winked  dangerously  at  Edwin,  who  with  stern- 
ness responded.  He  wondered  why  he  should  thus 
deceive  his  wife,  with  whom  he  was  so  deliciously  in- 
timate. He  thought  also  that  women  were  capricious 
in  their  anxieties,  and  yet  now  and  then  their  moods — 
once  more  by  the  favour  of  hazard — displayed  a 
marvellous  appositeness.  Hilda  had  no  reason 
whatever  for  worrying  more  about  George  on  this 
night  than  on  any  other  night.  Nevertheless  this 
night  happened  to  be  the  night  on  which  anxiety  would 
be  justified. 

"Ada,"  said  Hilda  to  the  entering  servant.  "Have 
you  seen  Master  George?" 

"No'm,"  Ada  replied,  almost  defiantly. 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"I  don't  remember,  m'm." 

"Is  he  in  bed?" 

"I  don't  know,  m'm." 

"Just  go  and  see,  will  you?" 

"Yes'm." 

The  company  waited  with  gentle,  concealed  excite- 
ment for  the  returning  Ada,  who  announced: 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  65 

"His  bedroom  door's  locked,  m'm." 

"He  will  lock  it  sometimes,  although  I've  positively 
forbidden  him  to.  But  what  are  you  to  do?"  said 
Hilda,  smilingly  to  the  other  mothers. 

"Take  the  key  away,  obviously,"  Tertius  Ingpen  an- 
swered the  question,  turning  quickly  and  interrupting 
his  chat  with  Janet  Orgreave. 

"That  ought  not  to  be  necessary,"  said  Fearns,  as 
an  expert  father. 

Ada  departed,  thankful  to  be  finished  with  the  ordeal 
of  cross-examination  in  a  full  drawing-room. 

"Don't  you  know  anything  about  him?"  Hilda  ad- 
dressed Johnnie  Orgreave  suddenly. 

"Me?  About  your  precious?  No.  Why  should  I 
know?" 

"Because  you're  getting  such  friends,  you  two." 

"Oh!  Are  we?"  Johnnie  said  carelessly.  Neverthe- 
less he  was  flattered  by  a  certain  nascent  admiration 
on  the  part  of  George,  which  was  then  beginning  to  be 
noticeable. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when  several  guests  had 
gone,  Hilda  murmured  to  Edwin: 

"I'm  not  easy  about  that  boy.  I'll  just  run  up- 
stairs." 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Edwin. 

But  she  did.  And  the  distant  sound  of  knocking, 
and  "George,  George,"  could  be  heard  even  down  in 
the  hall. 

"I  can't  wake  him,"  said  Hilda,  back  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"What  do  you  want  to  wake  him  for,  foolish  girl?" 
Edwin  demanded. 

She  enjoyed  being  called  "foolish  girl,"  but  she  was 
not  to  be  tranquillised. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  in  bed?"  she  questioned,  before 


66  THESE  TWAIN 

the  whole  remaining  company,  and  the  dread  suspicion 
was  out! 

After  more  journeys  upstairs,  and  more  hangings, 
and  essays  with  keys,  and  even  attempts  at  lock-pick- 
ing, Hilda  announced  that  George's  room  must  be  be- 
sieged from  its  window.  A  ladder  was  found,  and 
interested  visitors  went  into  the  back-entry,  by  the 
kitchen,  to  see  it  reared  and  hear  the  result.  Edwin 
thought  that  the  cook  in  the  kitchen  looked  as  guilty 
as  he  himself  felt,  though  she  more  than  once  asseverated 
her  belief  that  Master  George  was  safely  in  bed.  The 
ladder  was  too  short.  Edwin  mounted  it,  and  tried  to 
prise  himself  on  to  the  window-sill,  but  could  not. 

"Here,  let  me  try!"  said  Ingpen,  joyous. 

Ingpen  easily  succeeded.  He  glanced  through  the 
open  window  into  George's  bedroom,  and  then  looked 
Idown  at  the  upturned  faces,  and  Ada's  apjon,  whitely 
visible  in  the  gloom. 

"He's  here  all  right." 

"Oh,  good!"  said  Hilda.     "Is  he  asleep?" 

"Yes." 

"He  deserves  to  be  wakened,"  she  laughed. 

"You  see  what  a  foolish  girl  you've  been,"  said  Edwin 
affectionately. 

"Never  mind!"  she  retorted.  "You  couldn't  get  on 
the  window.  And  you  were  just  as  upset  as  anybody. 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know?  Thank  you,  Mr.  Ingpen." 

"Is  he  really  there?"  Edwin  whispered  to  Ingpen  as 
soon  as  he  could. 

"Yes.    And  asleep,  too !" 

"I  wonder  how  the  deuce  he  slipped  in.  I'll  bet  any- 
thing those  servants  have  been  telling  a  lot  of  lies  for 
him.  He  pulls  their  hair  down  and  simply  does  what 
he  likes  with  them." 

Edwin  was  now  greatly  reassured,  but  he  could  not 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  67 

quite  recover  from  the  glimpse  he  had  had  of  George's 
capacity  for  leading  a  double  life.  Sardonically  he 
speculated  whether  the  heavenly  penknife  would  be 
brought  to  his  notice  by  its  owner,  and  if  so  by  what 
ingenious  method. 

ra 

The  final  sensation  was  caused  by  the  arrival,  in  a 
nearly  empty  drawing-room,  of  plump  Maggie,  nervous, 
constrained,  and  somewhat  breathless. 

"Bert  has  turned  up,"  she  said.  "Clara  thought  I'd 
better  come  along  and  tell  you.  She  felt  sure  you'd 
like  to  know." 

"Well,  that's  all  right  then,"  Hilda  replied  perfunc- 
torily, indicating  that  Clara's  conceited  assumption  of 
a  universal  interest  in  her  dull  children  was  ridiculous. 

Edwin  asked: 

"Did  the  kid  say  where  he'd  been?" 

"Been  running  about  the  streets.  They  idon't  know 
what's  come  over  him — because,  you  see,  he'd  actually 
gone  to  bed  once.  Albert  is  quite  puzzled ;  but  he  says 
he'll  have  it  out  of  him  before  he's  done." 

"When  he  does  get  it  out  of  him,"  thought  Edwin 
again,  "there  will  be  a  family  row  and  George  will  be 
indicted  as  the  corrupter  of  innocence." 

Maggie  would  not  stay  a  single  moment.  Hilda  at- 
tentively accompanied  her  to  the  hall.  The  former 
and  the  present  mistress  of  the  house  kissed  with  the 
conventional  signs  of  affection.  But  the  fact  that  one 
had  succeeded  the  other  seemed  to  divide  them.  Hilda 
was  always  lying  in  wait  for  criticism  from  Maggie, 
ready  to  resent  it;  Maggie  divined  this  and  said  never 
a  word.  The  silence  piqued  Hilda  as  much  as  outspoken 
criticism  would  have  annoyed  her.  She  could  not  bear 
"it. 


68  THESE  TWAIN 

"How  do  you  like  my  new  stair-carpet?"  she  de- 
manded defiantly. 

"Very  nice!  Very  nice,  I'm  sure!"  Maggie  replied 
without  conviction.  And  added,  just  as  she  stepped 
outside  the  front-door,  "You've  made  a  lot  of  changes." 
This  was  the  mild,  good-natured  girl's  sole  thrust,  and 
it  was  as  effective  as  she  could  have  wished. 
.  Everybody  had  gone  except  the  two  Orgreaves  and 
Tertius  Ingpen. 

"I  don't  know  about  you,  Johnnie,  but  I  must  go," 
said  Janet  Orgreave  when  Hilda  came  back. 

"Hold  on,  Jan!"  Johnnie  protested.  "You're  for- 
getting those  duets  you  are  to  try  with  Ingpen." 

"Really?" 

"Duets!"  cried  Hilda,  instantly  uplifted  and  en- 
thusiastic. "Oh,  do  let's  have  some  music !" 

Ingpen  by  arrangement  with  the  Orgreaves  had 
brought  some  pianoforte  duets.  They  were  tied  to  his 
bicycle.  He  was  known  as  an  amateur  of  music.  Ed- 
win, bidding  Ingpen  not  to  move,  ran  out  into  the  gar- 
den to  get  the  music  from  the  bicycle.  Johnnie  ran 
after  him  through  the  French  window. 

"I  say !"  Johnnie  called  in  a  low  voice. 

"What's  up?"  Edwin  stopped  for  him. 

"I've  a  piece  of  news  for  you.  About  that  land 
you've  set  your  heart  on,  down  at  Shawport!  ...  It 
can  be  bought  cheap — at  least  the  old  man  says  it's 
cheap — whatever  his  opinion  may  be  worth.  I  was 
telling  him  about  your  scheme  for  having  a  new  print- 
ing works  altogether.  Astonishing  how  keen  he  is! 
If  I'd  had  a  plan  of  the  land,  I  believe  he'd  have  sat 
down  and  made  sketches  at  once." 

Johnnie  (with  his  brother  Jimmie)  was  in  partner- 
ship with  old  Orgreave  as  an  architect. 

"  'Set  my  heart  on?'  "  Edwin  mumbled,  intimidated 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  69 

as  usual  by  a  nearer  view  of  an  enterprise  which  he  had 
himself  conceived  and  which  had  enchanted  him  from 
afar.  "  'Set  my  heart  on?'  " 

"Well,  had  you,  or  hadn't  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  had,"  Edwin  admitted.  "Look  here, 
I'll  drop  in  and  see  you  to-morrow  morning." 

"Right!" 

Together  they  detached  the  music  from  the  bicycle, 
and,  as  Edwin  unrolled  it  and  rolled  it  the  other  side 
out  to  flatten  it,  they  returned  silently  through  the 
dark  wind-stirred  garden  into  the  drawing-room. 

There  were  now  the  two  Orgreaves,  Tertius  Ingpen, 
and  Hilda  and  Edwin  in  the  drawing-room. 

"We  will  now  begin  the  evening,"  said  Ingpen,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  music. 

All  five  were  conscious  of  the  pleasant  feeling  of  free- 
dom, intimacy,  and  mutual  comprehension  which  ani- 
mates a  small  company  that  by  self-selection  has  sur- 
vived out  of  a  larger  one.  The  lateness  of  the  hour 
aided  their  zest.  Even  the  more  staid  among  them 
perceived  as  by  a  revelation  that  it  did  not  in  fact  mat- 
ter, once  in  a  way,  if  they  were  tired  and  inefficient  on 
the  morrow,  and  that  too  much  regularity  of  habit  was 
bad  for  the  soul.  Edwin  had  brought  in  a  tray  from 
the  dining-room,  and  rearranged  the  chairs  according 
to  Hilda's  caprice,  and  was  providing  cushions  to  raise 
the  bodies  of  the  duet-players  to  the  proper  height. 
Janet  began  to  excuse  herself,  asserting  that  if  there 
was  one  member  of  her  family  who  could  not  play  duets, 
she  was  that  member,  that  she  had  never  seen  this 
Dvorak  music  before,  and  that  if  they  had  got  her 
brother  Tom,  or  her  elder  sister  Marion,  or  even  Ali- 
cia,— etc.,  etc. 

"We  are  quite  accustomed  to  these  formal  prelimi- 
naries from  duet-players,  Miss  Orgreave,"  said  Ing- 


70  THESE  TWAIN 

pen.  "I  never  do  them  myself, — not  because  I  can 
play  well,  but  because  I  am  hardened.  Now  shall  we 
start?  Will  you  take  the  treble  or  the  bass?" 

Janet  answered  with  eager  modesty  that  she  would 
take  the  bass. 

"It's  all  one  to  me,"  said  Ingpen,  putting  on  spec- 
tacles; "I  play  either  equally  badly.  You'll  soon  re- 
gret leaving  the  most  important  part  to  me.  How- 
ever .  .  .  !  Clayhanger,  will  you  turn  over?" 

"Er— yes,"  said  Edwin  boldly.  "But  you'd  better 
give  me  the  tip." 

He  knew  a  little  about  printed  music,  from  his  ex- 
periences as  a  boy  when  his  sisters  used  to  sing  two- 
part  songs.  That  is  to  say,  he  had  a  vague  idea  "where 
a  player  was"  on  a  page.  But  the  enterprise  of  turn- 
ing over  Dvorak's  "Legends"  seemed  to  him  critically 
adventurous.  Dvorak  was  nothing  but  a  name  to  him ; 
beyond  the  correct  English  method  of  pronouncing  that 
name,  he  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  the  subject  in 
hand. 

Then  the  performance  of  the  "Legends"  began.  De- 
spite halts,  hesitations,  occasional  loud  insistent  chant- 
ing of  the  time,  explanations  between  the  players,  many 
wrong  notes  by  Ingpen,  and  a  few  wrong  notes  by 
Janet,  and  one  or  two  enormous  misapprehensions  by 
Edwin,  the  performance  was  a  success,  in  that  it  put  a 
spell  on  its  public,  and  permitted  the  loose  and  tender 
genius  of  Dvorak  to  dominate  the  room. 

"Play  that  again,  will  you?"  said  Hilda,  in  a  low 
dramatic  voice,  at  the  third  "Legend." 

"We  will,"  Ingpen  answered.  "And  we'll  play  it 
better." 

Edwin  had  the  exquisite  sensation  of  partially  com- 
prehending music  whose  total  beauty  was  beyond  the 
limitations  of  his  power  to  enjoy — power,  neverthe- 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  71 

less,  which  seemed  to  grow  each  moment.  Passages  en- 
tirely intelligible  and  lovely  would  break  at  intervals 
through  the  veils  of  general  sound  and  ravish  him.  All 
his  attention  was  intensely  concentrated  on  the  page. 
He  could  hear  Ingpen  breathing  hard.  Out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  he  was  aware  of  Johnnie  Orgreave  on 
the  sofa  making  signs  to  Hilda  about  drinks,  and  pour- 
ing out  something  for  her,  and  something  for  himself, 
without  the  faintest  noise.  And  he  was  aware  of  Ada 
coming  to  the  open  door  and  being  waved  away  to  bed 
by  her  mistress.  * 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  the  last  "Legend"  was  played. 
"That's  a  bit  of  the  right  sort — no  mistake."  He  was 
obliged  to  be  banal  and  colloquial. 

Hilda  said  nothing  at  all.  Johnnie,  who  had  waited 
for  the  end  in  order  to  strike  a  match,  showed  by  two 
words  that  he  was  an  expert  listener  to  duets.  Tertius 
Ingpen  was  very  excited  and  pleased.  "More  tricky 
than  difficult,  isn't  it — to  read?"  he  said  privately  to 
his  fellow-performer,  who  concurred.  Janet  also  was 
excited  in  her  fashion.  But  even  amid  the  general  ex- 
citement Ingpen  had  to  be  judicious. 

"Delightful  stuff,  of  course,"  he  said,  pulling  his 
beard.  "But  he's  not  a  great  composer  you  know,  all 
the  same." 

"He'll  do  to  be  going  on  with,"  Johnnie  mur- 
mured. 

"Oh,  yes!  Delightful!  Delightful!"  Ingpen  re- 
peated warmly,  removing  his  spectacles.  "What  a  pity 
we  can't  have  musical  evenings  regularly !" 

"But  we  can!"  said  Hilda  positively.  "Let's  have 
them  here.  Every  week!" 

"A  great  scheme!"  Edwin  agreed  with  enthusiasm, 
admiring  his  wife's  initiative.  He  had  been  a  little 
afraid  that  the  episode  of  George  had  upset  her  for  the 


72  THESE  TWAIN 

night,  but  he  now  saw  that  she  had  perfectly  recovered 
from  it. 

"Oh!"  Ingpen  paused.  "I  doubt  if  I  could  come 
every  week.  I  could  come  once  a  fortnight." 

"Well,  once  a  fortnight  then!"  said  Hilda. 

"I  suppose  Sunday  wouldn't  suit  you?" 

Edwin  challenged  him  almost  fiercely: 

"Why  won't  it  suit  us?    It  will  suit  us  first-class." 

Ingpen  merely  said,  with  quiet  delicacy : 

"So  much  the  better.  .  .  .  We  might  go  all  through 
the  Mozart  fiddle  sonatas." 

"And  who's  your  violinist?"  asked  Johnnie. 

"I  am,  if  you  don't  mind."  Ingpen  smiled.  "If  your 
sister  will  take  the  piano  part." 

Hilda  exclaimed  admiringly: 

"Do  you  play  the  violin,  too,  Mr.  Ingpen?" 

"I  scrape  it.  Also  the  tenor.  But  my  real  instru- 
ment is  the  clarinet."  He  laughed.  "It  seems  odd," 
he  went  on  with  genuine  scientific  unegotistic  interest  in 
himself.  "But  d'you  know  I  thoroughly  enjoy  playing 
the  clarinet  in  a  bad  orchestra  whenever  I  get  the 
chance.  When  I  happen  to  have  a  free  evening  I  often 
wish  I  could  drop  in  at  a  theatre  and  play  rotten  music 
in  the  band.  It's  better  than  nothing.  Some  of  us  are 
born  mad." 

"But  Mr.  Ingpen,"  said  Janet  Orgreave  anxiously, 
after  this  speech  had  been  appreciated.  "I  have  never 
played  those  Mozart  sonatas." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied  with  admirable 
tranquillity.  "Neither  have  I.  I've  often  meant  to. 
It'll  be  quite  a  sporting  event.  But  of  course  we  can 
have  a  rehearsal  if  you  like.'* 

The  project  of  the  musical  evenings  was  discussed 
and  discussed  until  Janet,  having  vanished  silently  up- 
stairs, reappeared  with  her  hat  and  cloak  on. 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  73 

"I  can  go  alone  if  you  aren't  ready,  Johnnie,"  said 
she. 

Johnnie  yawned. 

"No.    I'm  coming." 

"I  also  must  go — I  suppose,'*  said  Ingpen. 

They  all  went  into  the  hall.  Through  the  open  door 
of  the  dining-room,  where  one  gas-jet  burned,  could  be 
seen  the  rich  remains  of  what  had  been  "light  refresh- 
ments" in  the  most  generous  interpretation  of  the 
term. 

Ingpen  stopped  to  regard  the  spectacle,  fingering  his 
beard. 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  he  remarked,  with  that 
strange  eternal  curiosity  about  himself,  "whether  I'd 
had  enough  to  eat.  I've  got  to  ride  home." 

"Well,  what  have  you  had?"  Johnnie  quizzed  him. 

"I  haven't  had  anything,"  said  Ingpen,  "except 
drink." 

Hilda  cried. 

"Oh!  You  poor  sufferer!  I  am  ashamed!"  And 
led  him  familiarly  to  the  table. 

rv 

Edwin  was  kept  at  the  front-door  some  time  by 
Johnnie  Orgreave,  who  resumed  as  he  was  departing 
the  subject  of  the  proposed  new  works,  and  maintained 
it  at  such  length  that  Janet,  tired  of  waiting  on  the 
pavement,  said  that  she  would  walk  on.  When  he  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room,  Ingpen  and  Hilda  were  sit- 
ting side  by  side  at  the  littered  table,  and  the  first 
words  that  Edwin  heard  were  from  Ingpen: 

"It  cost  me  a  penknife.  But  it  was  dirt  cheap  at 
the  price.  You  can't  expect  to  be  the  Almighty  for 
much  less  than  a  penknife."  Seeing  Edwin,  he  added 


74  THESE  TWAIN 

with  a  nonchalant  smile:  "I've  told  Mrs.  Clayhanger 
all  about  the  answer  to  prayer.  I  thought  she  ought 
to  know." 

Edwin  laughed  awkwardly,  saying  to  himself: 

"Ingpen,  my  boy,  you  ought  to  have  thought  of  my 
position  first.  You've  been  putting  your  finger  into 
a  rather  delicate  piece  of  mechanism.  Supposing  she 
cuts  up  rough  with  me  afterwards  for  hiding  it  from 
her  all  this  time!  .  .  .  I'm  living  with  her.  You 
aren't." 

"Of  course,"  Ingpen  added.  "I've  sworn  the  lady  to 
secrecy." 

Hilda  said: 

"I  knew  all  the  time  there  was  something  wrong." 

And  Edwin  thought: 

"No,  you  didn't.  And  if  he  hadn't  happened  to  tell 
you  about  the  thing,  you'd  have  been  convinced  that 
you'd  been  alarming  yourself  for  nothing." 

But  he  only  said,  not  certain  of  Hilda's  humour,  and 
anxious  to  placate  her: 

"There's  no  doubt  George  ought  to  be  punished." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind !  Nothing  of  the  kind !"  Ing- 
pen vivaciously  protested.  "Why,  bless  my  soul !  The 
kids  were  engaged  in  a  religious  work.  They  were  busy 
with  someone  far  more  important  than  any  parents." 
And  after  a  pause,  reflectively:  "Curious  thing,  the 
mentality  of  a  child!  I  doubt  if  we  understand  any- 
thing about  it." 

Hilda  smiled,  but  said  naught. 

"May  I  enquire  what  there  is  in  that  bottle?"  Ing- 
pen asked. 

"Benedictine." 

"Have  some,  Mr.  Ingpen." 

"I  will  if  you  will,  Mrs.  Clayhanger." 

Edwin  raised  his  eyebrows  at  his  wife. 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  75 

"You  needn't  look  at  me !"  said  Hilda.  "I'm  going 
to  have  some." 

Ingpen  smacked  his  lips  over  the  liqueur. 

"It's  a  very  bad  thing  late  at  night,  of  course.  But 
I  believe  in  giving  your  stomach  something  to  think 
about.  I  never  allow  my  digestive  apparatus  to  boss 
me." 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Ingpen." 

They  touched  glasses,  without  a  word,  almosj;  in- 
stinctively. 

"Well,"  thought  Edwin,  "for  a  chap  who  thinks 
women  ought  to  be  behind  the  veil  ...  !" 

"Be  a  man,  Clayhanger,  and  have  some." 

Edwin  shook  his  head. 

With  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of  her  glass, 
Hilda  greeted  her  husband,  peeping  out  at  him  as  it 
were  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  in  a  glint  of  affection. 
He  was  quite  happy.  They  were  all  seated  close  to- 
gether, Edwin  opposite  the  other  two  at  the  large  table. 
The  single  gas-jet,  by  the  very  inadequacy  with  which 
it  lighted  the  scene  of  disorder,  produced  an  effect  of 
informal  homeliness  and  fellowship  that  warmed  the 
heart.  Each  of  the  three  realised  with  pleasure  that  a 
new  and  promising  friendship  was  in  the  making.  They 
talked  at  length  about  the  Musical  Evenings,  and  Ed- 
win said  that  he  should  buy  some  music,  and  Hilda 
asked  him  to  obtain  a  history  of  music  that  Ingpen 
described  with  some  enthusiasm,  and  the  date  of  the 
first  evening  was  settled, — Sunday  week.  And  after 
uncounted  minutes  Ingpen  remarked  that  he  presumed 
he  had  better  go. 

"I  have  to  cycle  home,"  he  announced  once  more. 

"To-night?"  Hilda  exclaimed. 

"No.     This  morning." 

"All  the  way  to  Axe?" 


76  THESE  TWAIN 

"Oh,  no  I  I'm  three  miles  this  side  of  Axe.  It's  only 
six  and  a  half  miles." 

"But  all  those  hills!" 

"Pooh!     Excellent  for  the  muscles  of  the  calf." 

"Do  you  live  alone,  Mr.  Ingpen?" 

"I  have  a  sort  of  housekeeper." 

"In  a  cottage?" 

"In  a  cottage." 

"But  what  do  you  do — all  alone?" 

"I  cultivate  myself." 

And  Hilda,  in  a  changed  tone,  said: 

"How  wise  you  are!" 

"Rather  inconvenient,  being  out  there,  isn't  it?"  Ed- 
win suggested. 

"It  may  be  inconvenient  sometimes  for  my  job.  But 
I  can't  help  that.  I  give  the  State  what  I  consider  fair 
value  for  the  money  it  pays  me,  and  not  a  grain  more. 
I've  got  myself  to  think  about.  There  are  some  things 
I  won't  do,  and  one  of  them  is  to  live  all  the  time  in  a 
vile  hole  like  the  Five  Towns.  I  won't  do  it.  I'd  sooner 
be  a  blooming  peasant  on  the  land." 

As  he  was  a  native  he  had  the  right  to  criticise  the 
district  without  protest  from  other  natives. 

"You're  quite  right  as  to  the  vile  hole,"  said  Hilda 
with  conviction. 

"I  don't  know "  Edwin  muttered.  "I  think  old 

Bosley  isn't  so  bad." 

"Yes.  But  you're  an  old  stick-in-the-mud,  dearest," 
said  Hilda.  "Mr.  Ingpen  has  lived  away  from  the  dis- 
trict, and  so  have  I.  You  haven't.  You're  no  judge. 
We  know,  don't  we,  Mr.  Ingpen?" 

When,  Ingpen  having  at  last  accumulated  sufficient 
resolution  to  move  and  get  his  cap,  they  went  through 
the  drawing-room  to  the  garden,  they  found  that  rain 
was  falling. 


TERTIUS  INGPEN  77 

"Never  mind!"  said  Ingpen,  lifting  his  head  sar- 
donically in  a  mute  indictment  of  the  heavens.  "I  have 
my  mack." 

Edwin  searched  out  the  bicycle  and  brought  it  to 
the  window,  and  Hilda  stuck  a  hat  on  his  head. 
Leisurely  Ingpen  clipped  his  trousers  at  the  ankle,  and 
unstrapped  a  mackintosh  cape  from  the  machine,  and 
folded  the  strap.  Leisurely  he  put  on  the  cape,  and 
gazed  at  the  impenetrable  heavens  again. 

"I  can  make  you  up  a  bed,  Mr.  Ingpen." 

"No,  thanks.  Oh,  no,  thanks !  The  fact  is,  I  rather 
like  rain." 

Leisurely  he  took  a  box  of  fusees  from  his  pocket, 
and  lighted  his  lamp,  examining  it  as  though  it  con- 
tained some  hidden  and  perilous  defect.  Then  he 
pressed  the  tyres. 

"The  back  tyre'll  do  with  a  little  more  air,"  he  said 
thoughtfully.  "I  don't  know  if  my  pump  will  work." 

It  did  work,  but  slowly.  After  which,  gloves  had  to 
be  assumed. 

"I  suppose  I  can  get  out  this  way.  Oh!  My  mu- 
sic! Never  mind,  I'll  leave  it." 

Then  with  a  sudden  access  of  ceremoniousness  he 
bade  adieu  to  Hilda ;  no  detail  of  punctilio  was  omitted 
from  the  formality. 

"Good-bye.    Many  thanks." 

"Good-bye.    Thank  your 

Edwin  preceded  the  bicyclist  and  the  bicycle  round 
the  side  of  the  house  to  the  front-gate  at  the  corner  of 
Hulton  Street  and  Trafalgar  Road. 

In  the  solemn  and  chill  nocturnal  solitude  of  rain- 
swept Hulton  Street,  Ingpen  straddled  the  bicycle, 
with  his  left  foot  on  one  raised  pedal  and  the  other  on 
the  pavement;  and  then  held  out  a  gloved  hand  to 
Edwin. 


78  THESE  TWAIN 

"Good-bye,  old  chap.    See  you  soon." 

Much  good-will  and  appreciation  and  hope  was  im- 
plicit in  that  rather  casual  handshake. 

He  sheered  off  strongly  down  the  dark  slope  of  Hul- 
ton  Street  in  the  rain,  using  his  ankles  with  skill  in  the 
pedal-stroke.  The  man's  calves  seemed  to  be  enor- 
mously developed.  The  cape  ballooned  out  behind  his 
swiftness,  and  in  a  moment  he  had  swerved  round  the 
flickering  mournful  gas-lamp  at  the  bottom  of  the  mean 
new  street  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HUSBAND    AND   WIFE 


"I'M  upstairs,"  Hilda  called  in  a  powerful  whisper 
from  the  head  of  the  stairs  as  soon  as  Edwin  had  closed 
and  bolted  the  front-door. 

He  responded  humorously.  He  felt  very  happy, 
lusty,  and  wideawake.  The  evening  had  had  its  contre- 
temps, its  varying  curve  of  success,  but  as  a  whole  it 
was  a  triumph.  And,  above  all,  it  was  over, — a  thing 
that  had  had  to  be  accomplished  and  that  had  been 
accomplished,  with  dignity  and  effectiveness.  He 
walked  in  ease  from  room  to  lighted  empty  room,  and 
the  splendid  waste  of  gas  pleased  him,  arousing  some- 
thing royal  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  generous  natures. 
In  the  breakfast-room  especially  the  gas  had  been 
flaring  to  no  purpose  for  hours.  "Her  room,  her  very 
own  room!"  He  wondered  indulgently  when,  if  ever, 
she  would  really  make  it  her  own  room  by  impressing 
her  individuality  upon  it.  He  knew  she  was  always 
meaning  to  do  something  drastic  to  the  room,  but  so 
far  she  had  got  no  further  than  his  portrait.  Child! 
Infant!  Wayward  girl!  .  .  .  Still  the  fact  of  the 
portrait  on  the  mantelpiece  touched  him. 

He  dwelt  tenderly  on  the  invisible  image  of  the  woman 
upstairs.  It  was  marvellous  how  she  was  not  the  Hilda 
he  had  married.  The  new  Hilda  had  so  overlaid  and 
hidden  the  old,  that  he  had  positively  to  make  an  effort 

79 


80  THESE  TWAIN 

to  recall  what  the  old  one  was,  with  her  sternness  and 
her  anxious  air  of  responsibility.  But  at  the  same 
time  she  was  the  old  Hilda  too.  He  desired  to  be  splen- 
didly generous,  to  environ  her  with  all  luxuries,  to  lift 
her  clear  above  other  women;  he  desired  the  means  to 
be  senselessly  extravagant  for  her.  To  clasp  on  her 
arm  a  bracelet  whose  cost  would  keep  a  workingman's 
family  for  three  years  would  have  delighted  him.  And 
though  he  was  interested  in  social  schemes,  and  had  a 
social  conscience,  he  would  sooner  have  bought  that 
bracelet,  and  so  purchased  the  momentary  thrill  of 
putting  it  on  her  capricious  arm,  than  have  helped  to 
ameliorate  the  lot  of  thousands  of  victimised  human  be- 
ings. He  had  Hilda  in  his  bones  and  he  knew  it,  and 
he  knew  that  it  was  a  grand  and  a  painful  thing. 

Nevertheless  he  was  not  without  a  considerable  self- 
satisfaction,  for  he  had  done  very  well  by  Hilda.  He 
had  found  her  at  the  mercy  of  the  world,  and  now  she 
was  safe  and  sheltered  and  beloved,  and  made  mistress 
of  a  house  and  home  that  would  stand  comparison  with 
most  houses  and  homes.  He  was  proud  of  his  house; 
he  always  watched  over  it ;  he  was  always  improving  it ; 
and  he  would  improve  it  more  and  more;  and  it  should 
never  be  quite  finished. 

The  disorder  in  it,  now,  irked  him.  He  walked  to 
and  fro,  and  restored  every  piece  of  furniture  to  its 
proper  place,  heaped  the  contents  of  the  ash-trays  into 
one  large  ash-tray,  covered  some  of  the  food,  and 
locked  up  the  alcohol.  He  did  this  leisurely,  while 
thinking  of  the  woman  upstairs,  and  while  eating  two 
chocolates, — not  more,  because  he  had  notions  about 
his  stomach.  Then  he  shut  and  bolted  the  drawing- 
room  window,  and  opened  the  door  leading  to  the  cellar 
steps  and  sniffed,  so  as  to  be  quite  certain  that  the 
radiator  furnace  was  not  setting  the  house  on  fire. 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  81 

And  then  he  extinguished  the  lights,  and  the  hall-light 
last  of  all,  and  his  sole  illumination  was  the  gas  on  the 
first-floor  landing  inviting  him  upstairs. 

Standing  on  the  dark  stairs,  on  his  way  to  bed,  eager 
and  yet  reluctant  to  mount,  he  realised  the  entity  of 
the  house.  He  thought  of  the  astounding  and  mysteri- 
ous George,  and  of  those  uncomprehended  beings,  Ada 
and  the  cook  in  their  attic,  sleeping  by  the  side  of  the, 
portrait  of  a  fireman  in  uniform.  He  felt  sure  that 
one  or  both  of  them  had  been  privy  to  George's  un- 
lawful adventures,  and  he  heartily  liked  them  for  shield- 
ing the  boy.  And  he  thought  of  his  wife,  moving  about 
in  the  bedroom  upon  which  she  had  impressed  her  in- 
dividuality. He  went  upstairs.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  should 
proceed  with  the  enterprise  of  the  new  works.  He  had 
the  courage  for  it  now.  He  was  rich,  according  to 
Bursley  ideas, — he  would  be  far  richer.  .  .  .  He  gave 
a  faint  laugh  at  the  memory  of  George's  objection  to 
Bert's  choice  of  a  bicycle  as  a  gift  from  heaven. 


Hilda  was  brushing  her  hair.  The  bedroom  seemed 
to  be  full  of  her  and  the  disorder  of  her  multitudinous, 
things.  Whenever  he  asked  why  a  particular  item  of 
her  goods  was  in  a  particular  spot — the  spot  appearing 
to  him  to  have  been  bizarrely  chosen — she  always 
proved  to  her  own  satisfaction,  by  a  quite  improvised 
argument,  that  that  particular  spot  was  the  sole  pos- 
sible spot  for  that  particular  item.  The  bedroom  was 
no  longer  theirs — it  was  hers.  He  picnicked  in  it. 
He  didn't  mind.  In  fact  he  rather  liked  the  pic- 
nic. It  pleased  him  to  exercise  his  talent  for  order 
and  organisation,  so  as  to  maintain  his  own  com- 
fort in  the  small  spaces 'which  she  left  to  him.  To-night 


82  THESE  TWAIN 

the  room  was  in  a  divine  confusion.  He  accepted  it 
with  pleasure.  The  beds  had  not  been  turned  down, 
because  it  was  improper  to  turn  them  down  when  they 
were  to  be  used  for  the  deposit  of  strangers'  finery. 
On  Edwin's  bed  now  lay  the  dress  which  Hilda  had 
taken  off.  It  was  a  most  agreeable  object  on  the  bed, 
and  seemed  even  richer  and  more  complex  there  than 
on  Hilda.  He  removed  it  carefully  to  a  chair.  An 
antique  diaphanous  shawl  remained,  which  was  un- 
familiar to  him. 

"What's  this  shawl?"  he  asked.  "I've  never  seen  this 
shawl  before.  What  is  it?" 

Hilda  was  busy,  her  bent  head  buried  in  hair. 

"Oh,  Edwin,  what  an  old  fusser  you  are !"  she  mum- 
bled. "What  shawl?" 

He  held  it  up. 

"Someone  must  have  left  it." 

He  proceeded  with  the  turning  down  of  his  bed.  Then 
he  sat  on  a  chair  to  regard  Hilda. 

When  she  had  done  her  hair  she  padded  across  the 
room  and  examined  the  shawl. 

"What  a  precious  thing !"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  Mrs. 
Fearns's.  She  must  have  taken  it  off  to  put  her  jacket 
on,  and  then  forgotten  it.  But  I'd  no  idea  how  good 
it  was.  It's  genuine  old.  I  wonder  how  it  would  suit 
me?" 

She  put  it  round  her  shoulders,  and  then  stood  smil- 
ing, posing,  bold,  provocative,  for  his  verdict.  The 
whiteness  of  her  deshabille  showed  through  the  delicate 
pattern  and  tints  of  the  shawl,  with  a  strange  effect. 
For  him  she  was  more  than  a  woman;  she  was  the  in- 
carnation of  a  sex.  It  Was  marvellous  how  all  she  did, 
all  her  ideas  and  her  gestures,  were  so  intensely  femi- 
nine, so  sure  to  perturb  or  enchant  him.  Nervously  he 
began  to  wind  his  watch.  He  wanted  to  spring  up  and 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  83 

kiss  her  because  she  was  herself.  But  he  could  not. 
So  he  said: 

"Come  here,  chit.     Let  me  look  at  that  shawl." 

She  obeyed.  She  knelt  acquiescent.  He  put  his 
watch  back  into  his  pocket,  and  fingered  the  shawl. 

Then  she  said : 

"I  suppose  one'll  be  allowed  to  grumble  at  Georgie 
for  locking  his  bedroom  door."  And  she  said  it  with 
a  touch  of  mockery  in  her  clear,  precise  voice,  as 
though  twitting  him,  and  Ingpen  too,  about  their  ab- 
surd theoretical  sense  of  honour  towards  children.  And 
there  was  a  touch  of  fine  bitterness  in  her  voice  also, — 
a  reminiscence  of  the  old  Hilda.  Incalculable  creature ! 
Who  could  have  guessed  that  she  would  make  such  a 
remark  at  such  a  moment?  In  his  mind  he  dashed 
George  to  pieces.  But  as  a  wise  male  he  ignored  all 
her  implications  and  answered  casually,  mildly,  with 
an  affirmative. 

She  went  on: 

"What  were  you  talking  such  a  long  time  to  John- 
nie Orgreave  about?" 

"Talking  a  long  time  to  Johnnie  Orgreave?  Oh! 
D'you  mean  at  the  front-door?  Why,  it  wasn't  half  a 
minute !  He  happened  to  mention  a  piece  of  land  down 
at  Shawport  that  I  had  a  sort  of  a  notion  of  buying." 

"Buying?    What  for?"    Her  tone  hardened. 

"Well,  supposing  I  had  to  build  a  new  works?" 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  it." 

"I've  only  just  begun  to  think  of  it  myself.  You 
see,  if  I'm  to  go  in  for  lithography  as  it  ought  to  be 
gone  in  for,  I  can't  possibly  stay  at  the  shop.  I  must 
have  more  room,  and  a  lot  more.  And  it  would  be 
cheaper  to  build  than  to  rent." 

She  stood  up. 

"Why  go  in  more  for  lithography?" 


84  THESE  TWAIN 

"You  can't  stand  still  in  business.  Must  either  go 
forward  or  go  back." 

"It  seems  to  me  it's  very  risky.  I  wondered  what 
you  were  hiding  from  me." 

"My  dear  girl,  I  was  not  hiding  anything  from  you," 
he  protested. 

"Whose  land  is  it?" 

"It  belongs  to  Tobias  Hall's  estate." 

"Yes,  and  I've  no  doubt  the  Halls  would  be  very 
glad  to  get  rid  of  it.  Who  told  you  about  it?" 

"Johnnie." 

"Of  course  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  too." 

"But  I'd  asked  him  if  he  knew  of  any  land  going 
cheap." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  shrugged  away  the 
disinterestedness  of  all  Orgreaves. 

"Anyone  could  get  the  better  of  you,"  she  said. 

He  resented  this  estimate  of  himself  as  a  good-na- 
tured simpleton.  He  assuredly  did  not  want  to  quar- 
rel, but  he  was  obliged  to  say: 

"Oh!    Could  they?" 

An  acerbity  scarcely  intentional  somehow  entered 
into  his  tone.  As  soon  as  he  heard  it  he  recognised  the 
tone  as  the  forerunner  of  altercations. 

"Of  course!"  she  insisted,  superiorly,  and  then  went 
on:  "We're  all  right  as  we  are.  We  spend  too  much 
money,  but  I  daresay  we're  all  right.  If  you  go  in  for 
a  lot  of  new  things  you  may  lose  all  we've  got,  and  then 
where  shall  we  be?" 

In  his  heart  he  said  to  her: 

"What's  it  got  to  do  with  you?  You  manage  your 
home,  and  I'll  manage  my  business!  You  know  noth- 
ing at  all  about  business.  You're  the  very  antithesis  of 
business.  Whatever  business  you've  ever  had  to  do 
with  you've  ruined.  You've  no  right  to  judge  and  no 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  85 

grounds  for  judgment.  It's  odious  of  you  to  asperse 
any  of  the  Orgreaves.  They  were  always  your  best 
friends.  I  should  never  have  met  you  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  them.  And  where  would  you  be  now  without  me? 
Trying  to  run  some  wretched  boarding-house  and  prob- 
ably starving.  Why  do  you  assume  that  I'm  a  d d 

fool?  You  always  do.  Let  me  tell  you  that  I'm  one 
of  the  most  common-sense  men  in  this  town,  and  every- 
body knows  it  except  you.  Anyhow  I  was  clever  enough 
to  get  you  out  of  a  mess.  .  .  .  You  knew  I  was  hiding 
something  from  you,  did  you?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk 
such  infernal  rot.  And  moreover  I  won't  have  you  in- 
terfering in  my  business,  dther  wives  don't,  and  you 
shan't.  So  let  that  be  clearly  understood."  In  his 
heart  he  was  very  ill-used  and  very  savage. 

But  he  only  said: 

"Well,  we  shall  see." 

She  retorted: 

"Naturally  if  you've  made  up  your  mind,  there's  no 
more  to  be  said." 

He  broke  out  viciously: 

"I've  not  made  up  my  mind.  Don't  I  tell  you  I've 
only  just  begun  to  think  about  it?" 

He  was  angry.  And  now  that  he  actually  was  angry, 
he  took  an  almost  sensual  pleasure  in  being  angry.  He 
had  been  angry  before,  though  on  a  smaller  scale,  with 
less  provocation,  and  he  had  sworn  that  he  would  never 
be  angry  again.  But  now  that  he  was  angry  again,  he 
gloomily  and  fiercely  revelled  in  it. 

Hilda  silently  folded  up  the  shawl,  and,  putting  it 
into  a  drawer  of  the  wardrobe,  shut  the  drawer  with 
an  irritatingly  gentle  click.  .  .  .  Click!  He  could 
have  killed  her  for  that  click.  .  .  .  She  seized  a  dress- 
ing-gown. 

"I  must  just  go  and  look  at  George,"  she  murmured, 


86  THESE  TWAIN 

with  cool,  clear  calmness, — the  virtuous,  anxious 
mother ;  not  a  trace  of  coquetry  anywhere  in  her. 

"What  bosh!"  he  thought.  "She  knows  perfectly 
well  George's  door  is  bolted." 

Marriage  was  a  startling  affair.  Who  could  have 
foretold  this  finish  to  the  evening?  Nothing  had  oc- 
curred .  .  .  nothing  .  .  .  and  yet  everything.  His 
plans  were  all  awry.  He  could  see  naught  but  trouble. 

She  was  away  some  time.  When  she  returned,  he  was 
in  bed,  with  his  face  averted.  He  heard  her  moving 
about. 

"Will  she,  or  won't  she,  come  and  kiss  me?"  he 
thought. 

She  came  and  kissed  him,  but  it  was  a  meaningless 
kiss. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  aloofly. 

"  'Night." 

She  slept.  But  he  could  not  sleep.  He  kept  think- 
ing the  same  thought:  "She's  no  right  whatever.  .  .  . 
I  must  say  I  never  bargained  for  this.  .  .  ."  etc. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  TRUCE 


NEARLY  a  week  passed.  Hilda,  in  the  leisure  of  a 
woman  of  fashion  after  dinner,  was  at  the  piano  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  had  not  urgent  stockings  to  mend, 
nor  jam  to  make,  nor  careless  wenches  to  overlook,  nor 
food  to  buy,  nor  accounts  to  keep,  nor  a  new  dress  to 
scheme  out  of  an  old  one,  nor  to  perform  her  duty  to 
her  neighbour.  She  had  nothing  to  do.  Like  Edwin, 
she  could  not  play  the  piano,  but  she  had  picked  up 
a  note  here  and  a  note  there  in  the  course  of  her  life, 
and  with  much  labour  and  many  slow  hesitations  she 
could  puzzle  out  a  chord  or  a  melody  from  the  printed 
page.  She  was  now  exasperatingly  spelling  with  her 
finger  a  fragment  of  melody  from  one  of  Dvorak's 
"Legends," — a  fragment  that  had  inhabited  her  mind 
since  she  first  heard  it,  and  that  seemed  to  gather  up 
and  state  all  the  sweet  heart-breaking  intolerable  melan- 
choly implicit  in  the  romantic  existence  of  that  city  on 
the  map,  Prague.  On  the  previous  day  she  had  been 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  identifying  the  unforgetable,  indis- 
missible  fragment  amid  the  multitude  of  notes.  Now 
she  had  recognisably  pieced  its  phrases  together,  and  as 
her  stiff  finger  stumbled  through  it,  her  ears  heard  it, 
once  more;  and  she  could  not  repeat  it  often  enough. 
What  she  heard  was  not  what  she  was  playing  but 
something  finer, — her  souvenir  of  what  Tertius  Ingpen 

87 


88  THESE  TWAIN 

had  played;  and  something  finer  than  that,  something 
finer  than  the  greatest  artist  could  possibly  play — 
magic ! 

It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  miracle  to  her  that  she  had 
been  able  to  reproduce  the  souvenir  in  physical  sound. 
She  was  proud  of  herself  as  a  miracle-worker,  and  some- 
what surprised.  And  at  the  same  time  she  was  abject 
because  she  "could  not  play  the  piano."  She  thought 
that  she  would  be  ready  to  sacrifice  many  happinesses 
in  order  to  be  able  to  play  as  well  as  even  George 
played,  that  she  would  exchange  all  her  own  gifts  mul- 
tiplied by  a  hundred  in  order  to  be  able  to  play  as 
Janet  Orgreave  played,  and  that  to  be  a  world-re- 
nowned pianist  dominating  immense  audiences  in  Euro- 
pean capitals  must  mean  the  summit  of  rapture  and 
glory.  (She  had  never  listened  to  a  world-renowned 
pianist.)  Meanwhile,  without  the  ennui  and  slavery  of 
practice,  she  was  enchanting  herself ;  and  she  savoured 
her  idleness,  and  thought  of  her  young  pretty  servants 
at  work,  and  her  boy  loose  and  at  large,  and  her  hus- 
band keeping  her,  and  of  the  intensity  of  beautiful  sor- 
row palpitating  behind  the  mediaeval  fa9ades  of  Prague. 
Had  Ingpen  overheard  her,  he  might  have  demanded: 
"Who  is  making  that  infernal  noise  on  the  piano?" 

Edwin  came  into  the  room,  holding  a  thick  green 
book.  He  ought  long  ago  to  have  been  back  at  the 
works  (or  "shop,"  as  it  was  still  called,  because  it  had 
once  been  principally  a  shop),  keeping  her. 

"Hello !"  she  murmured,  without  glancing  away 
from  the  piano.  "I  thought  you  were  gone." 

They  had  not  quarrelled;  but  they  had  not  made 
peace;  and  the  open  question  of  lithography  and  the 
new  works  still  separated  them.  Sometimes  they  had 
approached  each  other,  pretending  amiably  or  even  af- 
fectionately that  there  was  no  open  question.  But  the 


THE  TRUCE  89 

reality  of  the  question  could  not  be  destroyed  by  any 
pretence  of  ignoring  it. 

While  gazing  at  the  piano,  Hilda  could  also  see  Ed- 
win. She  thought  she  knew  him,  but  she  was  always 
making  discoveries  in  this  branch  of  knowledge.  Now 
and  then  she  was  so  bewildered  by  discoveries  that  she 
came  to  wonder  why  she  had  married  him,  and  why 
people  do  marry — really!  The  fact  was  that  she  had 
married  him  for  the  look  in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  sad  look, 
and  beyond  that  it  could  not  be  described.  Also,  a 
little,  she  had  married  him  for  his  bright  untidy  hair, 
and  for  that  short  oblique  shake  of  the  head  which 
with  him  meant  a  greeting  or  an  affirmative.  She  had 
not  married  him  for  his  sentiments  nor  for  his  goodness 
of  heart.  Some  points  in  him  she  did  not  like.  He  had 
a  tendency  to  colds,  and  she  hated  him  whenever  he 
had  a  cold.  She  often  detested  his  terrible  tidiness, 
though  it  was  a  convenient  failing.  More  and  more  she 
herself  wilfully  enjoyed  being  untidy,  as  her  mother 
had  been  untidy.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  her  mother's 
untidiness  used  to  annoy  her !  On  the  other  hand  she 
found  pleasure  in  humouring  Edwin's  crotchettiness  in 
regard  to  the  details  of  a  meal.  She  did  not  like  his 
way  of  walking,  which  was  ungainly,  nor  his  way  of 
standing,  which  was  infirm.  She  preferred  him  to  be 
seated.  She  could  not  but  regret  his  irresolution,  and 
his  love  of  ease.  However,  the  look  in  his  eyes  was 
paramount,  because  she  was  in  love  with  him.  She 
knew  that  he  was  more  deeply  and  helplessly  in  love 
with  her  than  she  with  him,  but  even  she  was  perhaps 
tightlier  bound  than  in  her  pride  she  thought. 

Her  love  had  the  maladies  of  a  woman's  love  when  it 
is  great;  these  may  possibly  be  also  the  maladies  of  a 
man's  love.  It  could  be  bitter.  Certainly  it  could 
never  rest  from  criticism,  spoken  or  unspoken.  In  the 


90  THESE  TWAIN 

presence  of  others  she  would  criticise  him  to  herself, 
if  not  aloud,  nearly  all  the  time;  the  ordeal  was  con- 
tinuous. When  she  got  him  alone  she  would  often  en- 
dow him  at  a  stroke  with  perfection,  and  her  tenderness 
would  pour  over  him.  She  trusted  him  profoundly; 
and  yet  she  had  constant  misgivings,  which  weakened 
or  temporarily  destroyed  her  confidence.  She  would 
treat  a  statement  from  him  with  almost  hostile  caution, 
and  accept  blindly  the  very '  same  statement  from  a 
stranger!  Her  habit  was  to  assume  that  in  any  en- 
counter between  him  and  a  stranger  he  would  be 
worsted.  She  was  afraid  for  him.  She  felt  that  she 
could  protect  him  better  than  he  could  protect  him- 
self,— against  any  danger  whatever.  This  instinct  to 
protect  him  was  also  the  instinct  of  self -protection ;  for 
peril  to  him  meant  peril  to  her.  And  she  had  had 
enough  of  peril.  After  years  of  disastrous  peril  she 
was  safe  and  George  was  safe.  And  if  she  was  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  Edwin,  she  was  also  passionately 
in  love  with  safety.  She  had  breathed  a  long  sigh  of 
relief,  and  from  a  desperate  self-defender  had  become 
a  woman.  She  lay  back,  as  it  were,  luxuriously  on  a 
lounge,  after  exhausting  and  horrible  exertions ;  she  had 
scarcely  ceased  to  pant.  At  the  least  sign  of  recurring 
danger  all  her  nerves  were  on  the  qui  vive.  Hence  her 
inimical  attitude  towards  the  project  of  the  new  works 
and  the  extension  of  lithography  in  Bursley.  The  sim- 
pleton (a  moment  earlier  the  perfect  man)  might  ruin 
himself — and  her!  In  her  view  he  was  the  last  per- 
son to  undertake  such  an  enterprise. 

Since  her  marriage,  Clara,  Maggie,  and  Auntie 
Hamps  had  been  engaged  in  the  pleasant  endless  task 
of  telling  her  all  about  everything  that  related  to  the 
family,  and  she  had  been  permitted  to  understand  that 
Edwin,  though  utterly  admirable,  was  not  of  a  creative 


THE  TRUCE  91 

disposition,  and  that  he  had  done  nothing  but  conserve 
what  his  father  had  left.  Without  his  father  Edwin 
"would  have  been  in  a  very  different  position."  She 
believed  this.  Every  day,  indeed,  Edwin,  by  the  texture 
of  his  hourly  life,  proved  the  truth  of  it.  ...  All  the 
persons  standing  to  make  a  profit  out  of  the  new  pro- 
ject would  get  the  better  of  his  fine  ingenuous  tempera- 
ment— naturally  I  She  knew  the  world.  Did  Edwin 
suppose  that  she  did  not  know  what  the  world  was? 
.  .  .  And  then  the  interminable  worry  of  the  new  enter- 
prise— misgivings,  uncertainties,  extra  work,  secret 
preoccupations!  What  room  for  love,  what  hope  of 

tranquillity  in  all  that?     He  might  argue But 

she  did  not  want  to  argue;  she  would  not  argue.  She 
was  dead  against  the  entire  project.  He  had  not  said 
to  her  that  it  was  no  affair  of  hers,  but  she  knew  that 
such  was  his  thought,  and  she  resented  the  attitude. 
No  affair  of  hers?  When  it  threatened  her  felicity? 
No !  She  would  not  have  it.  She  was  happy  and  secure. 
And  while  lying  luxuriously  back  in  her  lounge  she 
would  maintain  all  the  defences  of  her  happiness  and 
her  security. 


Holding  the  green  book  in  front  of  her,  Edwin  said 
quietly : 

"Read  this!" 

"Which?" 

He  pointed  with  his  finger. 

She  read : 

"7  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they 
are  so  placid  and  self-contained. 

I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition. 


92  THESE  TWAIN 

They  do  not  lie  awake  m  the  dark  and  weep  for  their 
sins. 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to 
God. 

Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the 
mania  of  owning  things. 

Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived 
thousands  of  years  ago. 

Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole 
earth." 

Edwin  had  lately  been  exciting  himself,  not  for  the 
first  time,  over  Walt  Whitman. 

"Fine,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  sure  that  she  would  share 
his  thrill. 

"Magnificent!"  she  agreed  with  quiet  enthusiasm. 
"I  must  read  more  of  that."  She  gazed  over  the  top 
of  the  book  through  the  open  blue-curtained  window 
into  the  garden. 

He  withdrew  the  book  and  closed  it. 

"You  haven't  got  that  tune  exactly  right,  you  know," 
he  said,  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  music. 

"Oh !"  She  was  startled.  What  did  he  know  about 
it?  He  could  not  play  the  piano. 

"Where  are  you?"  he  asked.  "Show  me.  Where's 
the  confounded  place  on  the  piano?  Well!  At  the 
end  you  play  it  like  this."  He  imitated  her.  "Whereas 
it  ought  to  be  like  this."  He  played  the  last  four  notes 
differently. 

"So  it  ought !"  She  murmured  with  submission,  after 
having  frowned. 

"That  bit  of  a  tune's  been  running  in  my  head,  too," 
he  said. 

The  strange  beauty  of  Whitman  and  the  strange 
beauty  of  Dvorak  seemed  to  unite,  and  both  Edwin  and 


THE  TRUCE  93 

Hilda  were  uplifted,  not  merely  by  these  mingled  beau- 
ties, but  by  their  realisation  of  the  wondrous  fact  that 
they  both  took  intense  pleasure  in  the  same  varied 
forms  of  beauty.  Happiness  rose  about  them  like  a 
sweet  smell  in  the  spaces  of  the  comfortable  impeccable 
drawing-room.  And  for  a  moment  they  leaned  towards 
each  other  in  bliss — across  the  open  question.  .  .  . 
Was  it  still  open?  .  .  .  Ah!  Edwin  might  be  in- 
genuous, a  simpleton,  but  Hilda  admitted  the  astound- 
ing, mystifying  adroitness  of  his  demeanour.  Had  he 
abandoned  the  lithographic  project,  or  was  he  privately 
nursing  it?  In  his  friendliness  towards  herself  was 
there  a  reserve,  or  was  there  not?  She  knew  .  .  .  she 
did  not  know  .  .  .  she  knew.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was  a 
reserve,  but  it  was  so  infinitesimal  that  she  could  not 
define  it, — could  not  decide  whether  it  was  due  to  ob- 
stinacy of  purpose,  or  merely  to  a  sense  of  injury, 
whether  it  was  resentful  or  condescending.  Exciting 
times  !  And  she  perceived  that  her  new  life  was  gradu- 
ally getting  fuller  of  such  excitements. 

"Well,"  said  he.  "It's  nearly  three.  Quarter-day's 
coming  along.  I'd  better  be  off  down  and  earn  a  bit 
towards  Maggie's  rent." 

Before  the  June  quarter-day,  he  had  been  jocular  in 
the  same  way  about  Maggie's  rent.  In  the  division  of 
old  Darius  Clayhanger's  estate  Maggie  had  taken  over 
the  Clayhanger  house,  and  Edwin  paid  rent  to  her 
therefor. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,"  said  Hilda, 
pouting  amiably. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"Anyhow,  the  rent  has  to  be  paid,  I  suppose." 

"And  I  wish  it  hadn't.  I  wish  we  didn't  live  in 
Maggie's  house." 


94  THESE  TWAIN 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  it." 

"You're  sentimental." 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  like.  I  don't  like  the 
idea  of  us  living  in  Maggie's  house.  I  never  feel  as  if 
I  was  at  home.  No,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  was  at  home." 

"What  a  kid  you  are !" 

"You  won't  change  me,"  she  persisted  stoutly. 

He  knew  that  she  was  not  sympathetic  towards  the 
good  Maggie.  And  he  knew  the  reasons  for  her  atti- 
tude, though  they  had  never  been  mentioned.  One  was 
mere  vague  jealousy  of  Maggie  as  her  predecessor  in 
the  house.  The  other  was  that  Maggie  was  always  very 
tepid  towards  George.  George  had  annoyed  her  on  his 
visits  previous  to  his  mother's  marriage,  and  moreover 
Maggie  had  dimly  resented  Edwin's  interest  in  the  son 
of  a  mysterious  woman.  If  she  had  encountered  George 
after  the  proclamation  of  Edwin's  engagement  she 
would  have  accepted  the  child  with  her  customary 
cheerful  blandness.  But  she  had  encountered  him  too 
soon,  and  her  puzzled  gaze  had  said  to  George :  "Why 
is  my  brother  so  taken  up  with  you?  There  must  be 
an  explanation,  and  your  strange  mother  is  the  ex- 
planation." Edwin  did  not  deny  Maggie's  attitude  to 
George,  but  he  defended  Maggie  as  a  human  being. 
Though  dull,  "she  was  absolutely  the  right  sort," 
and  the  very  slave  of  duty  and  loyalty.  He  would  have 
liked  to  make  Hilda  see  all  Maggie's  excellences. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  been  thinking?"  Hilda  went 
on.  "Suppose  you  were  to  buy  the  house  from  Mag- 
gie? Then  it  would  be  ours." 

He  answered  with  a  smile: 

"What  price  'the  mania  for  owning  things'?  .  .  . 
Would  you  like  me  to?"  There  was  promise  in  his 
roguish  voice. 


THE  TRUCE  95 

"Oh!  I  should.  I've  often  thought  of  it,"  she  said 
eagerly.  And  at  the  same  time  all  her  gestures  and 
glances  seemed  to  be  saying:  "Humour  me!  I  appeal 
to  you  as  a  girl  pouting  and  capricious.  But  humour 
me.  You  know  it  gives  you  pleasure  to  humour  me. 
You  know  you  like  me  not  to  be  too  reasonable.  We 
both  know  it.  I  want  you  to  do  this." 

It  was  not  the  fact  that  she  had  often  thought  of  the 
plan.  But  in  her  eagerness  she  imagined  it  to  be  the 
fact.  She  had  never  seriously  thought  of  the  plan  un- 
til that  moment,  and  it  appeared  doubly  favourable  to 
her  now,  because  the  execution  of  it,  by  absorbing  cap- 
ital, ought  to  divert  Edwin  from  his  lithographic  pro- 
ject, and  perhaps  render  the  lithographic  project  im- 
possible for  years. 

She  added,  aloud: 

"Then  you  wouldn't  have  any  rent  to  pay." 

"How  true!"  said  Edwin,  rallying  her.  "But  it 
would  stand  me  in  a  loss,  because  I  should  have  to  pay 
too  much  for  the  place." 

"Why?"  she  cried,  in  arms.  "Why  should  Maggie 
ask  too  much  just  because  you  want  it?  And  think 
of  all  the  money  you've  spent  on  it !" 

"The  money  spent  on  it  only  increases  its  value  to 
Maggie.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  landlordism, 
my  child.  But  that's  not  the  point  at  all.  Maggie 
won't  ask  any  price.  Only  I  couldn't  decently  pay  her 
less  than  the  value  she  took  the  house  over  at  when  we 
divided  up.  To  wit,  £1,800.  It  ain't  worth  that.  I 
only  pay  £60  rent." 

"If  she  took  it  over  at  too  high  a  value  that's  her 
look-out,"  said  the  harsh  and  unjust  Hilda. 

"Not  at  all.  She  was  a  fool.  Albert  and  Clara  per- 
suaded her.  It  was  a  jolly  good  thing  for  them.  I 
couldn't  very  well  interfere." 


96  THESE  TWAIN 

"It  seems  a  great  shame  you  should  have  to  pay  for 
what  Albert  and  Clara  did." 

"I  needn't  unless  I  want  to.  Only,  if  I  buy  the 
house,  £1,800  will  have  to  be  the  price." 

"Well,"  said  Hilda.     "I  wish  you'd  buy  it." 

"Would  she  feel  more  at  home  if  he  did?"  he  seduc- 
tively chaffed  her. 

"Yes,  she  would."  Hilda  straightened  her  shoulders, 
and  smiled  with  bravado. 

"And  suppose  Mag  won't  sell?" 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  mention  it  to  her?"  Hilda's 
submissive  tone  implied  that  Edwin  was  a  tyrant  who 
ruled  with  a  nod. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said  negligently. 

"Well,  one  of  these  days  I  just  will." 

Edwin  departed,  leaving  the  book  behind.  Hilda  was 
flushed.  She  thought:  "It  is  marvellous.  I  can  do 
what  I  like  with  him.  When  I  use  a  particular  tone, 
and  look  at  him  in  a  particular  way,  I  can  do  what  I 
like  with  him." 

She  was  ecstatically  conscious  of  an  incomprehensi- 
ble power.  What  a  role,  that  of  the  capricious,  pouting 
queen,  reclining  luxuriously  on  her  lounge,  and  subdu- 
ing a  tyrant  to  a  slave!  It  surpassed  that  of  the 
world-renowned  pianist!  .  .  . 

ra 

But  soon  she  became  more  serious.  She  had  a  deli- 
cious glow  of  seriousness.  She  overflowed  with  grati- 
tude to  Edwin.  His  good-nature  was  exquisite.  He 
was  not  perfect.  She  could  see  all  his  faults  just  as 
plainly  as  when  she  was  angry  with  him.  But  he  was 
perfect  in  lovableness.  She  adored  every  aspect  of  him, 
every  manifestation  of  his  character.  She  felt  her 


THE  TRUCE  97 

responsibility  to  him  and  to  George.  It  was  hers  to 
bring  grace  into  their  lives.  Without  her,  how  miser- 
able, how  uncared  for,  those  two  would  be!  They 
would  be  like  lost  children.  Nobody  could  do  for  them 
what  she  did.  Money  could  not  buy  what  she  gave  natu- 
rally, and  mere  invention  could  not  devise  it.  She 
looked  up  to  Edwin,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was  mys- 
teriously above  both  him  and  George.  She  had  a 
strange  soft  wisdom  for  them.  It  was  agreeable,  and 
it  was  proper,  and  it  was  even  prudent,  to  be  capri- 
cious on  occasion  and  to  win  by  pouting  and  wiles  and 
seductions;  but  beneath  all  that  lay  the  tremendous 
sternness  of  the  wife's  duty,  everlasting  and  intricate,  a 
heavy  obligation  that  demanded  all  her  noblest  powers 
for  its  fulfilment.  She  rose  heroically  to  the  thought  of 
duty,  conceiving  it  as  she  had  never  conceived  it  be- 
fore. She  desired  intensely  to  be  the  most  wonderful 
wife  in  the  whole  history  of  marriage.  And  she  be- 
lieved strongly  in  her  capabilities. 

She  went  upstairs  to  put  on  another  and  a  finer 
dress;  for  since  the  disastrous  sequel  to  the  At  Home 
she  had  somewhat  wearied  in  the  pursuit  of  elegance. 
She  had  thought :  "What  is  the  use  of  me  putting  my- 
self to  such  a  lot  of  trouble  for  a  husband  who  is  in- 
sensible enough  to  risk  my  welfare  unnecessarily?"  She 
was  now  ashamed  of  this  backsliding.  Ada- was  in  the 
bedroom  finicking  with  something  on  the  dressing-table. 
Ada  sprang  to  help  as  soon  as  she  knew  that  her 
mistress  had  to  go  out.  And  she  openly  admired  the 
new  afternoon  dress  and  seemed  as  pleased  as  though 
she  was  to  wear  it  herself.  And  Ada  buttoned  her  boots 
and  found  her  gloves  and  her  parasol,  and  remembered 
her  purse  and  her  bag  and  her  handkerchief. 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  time  I  shall  be  back,  Ada." 
"No'm,"  said  Ada  eagerly,  as  though  saying:     "Of 


98  THESE  TWAIN 

course  you  idon't,  m'm.  You  have  many  engagements. 
But  no  matter  when  you  come  back  we  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you  because  the  house  is  nothing  without 
you." 

"Of  course  I  shall  be  back  for  tea." 

"Oh,  yes'm!"  Ada  agreed,  as  though  saying:  "Need 
you  tell  me  that,  m'm?  I  know  you  would  never  leave 
the  master  to  have  his  tea  alone." 

Hilda  walked  regally  down  the  stairs  and  glanced 
round  about  her  at  the  house,  which  belonged  to  Mag- 
gie and  which  Edwin  had  practically  promised  to  buy. 
Yes,  it  was  a  fine  house,  a  truly  splendid  abode.  And 
it  seemed  all  the  finer  because  it  was  Maggie's.  Hilda 
had  this  regrettable  human  trait  of  overvaluing  what 
was  not  hers  and  depreciating  what  was.  It  accounted 
in  part,  possibly,  for  her  often  very  critical  attitude 
towards  Edwin.  She  passed  out  of  the  front-door  in 
triumph,  her  head  full  of  wise  schemes  and  plots.  But 
even  then  she  was  not  sure  whether  she  had  destroyed 
— or  could  ever  destroy,  by  no  matter  what  arts ! — the 
huge  dangerous  lithographic  project. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Ada  ran  yelling  to  the 
kitchen : 

"Hooray!    She's  safe." 

And  both  servants  burst  like  infants  into  the  garden, 
to  disport  themselves  upon  the  swing. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME 


WHEN  Hilda  knocked  at  the  door  of  Auntie  Hamps's 
house,  in  King  Street,  a  marvellously  dirty  and  untidy 
servant  answered  the  summons,  and  a  smell  of  green- 
gage jam  in  the  making  surged  out  through  the  door- 
way into  the  street.  The  servant  wore  an  apron  of 
rough  sacking. 

"Is  Miss  Clayhanger  in?"  coldly  asked  Hilda,  of- 
fended by  the  sight  and  the  smell. 

The  servant  looked  suspicious  and  mysterious. 

"No,  mum.     Her's  gone  out." 

"Mrs.  Hamps,  then?" 

"Missis  is  up  yon,"  said  the  servant,  jerking  her 
tousled  head  back  towards  the  stairs. 

"Will  you  tell  her  I'm  here?" 

The  servant  left  the  visitor  on  the  doorstep,  and 
with  an  elephantine  movement  of  the  knees  ran  upstairs. 

Hilda  walked  into  the  passage  towards  the  kitchen. 
On  the  kitchen  fire  was  the  brilliant  copper  pan  sacred 
te>  "preserving."  Rows  of  earthenware  and  glass  jars 
stood  irregularly  on  the  table. 

"Her'll  be  down,"  said  the  brusque  servant,  return- 
ing, and  glared  open-mouthed. 

"Shall  I  wait  in  the  sitting-room?" 

The  house,  about  seventy  years  old,  was  respectably 
situated  in  the  better  part  of  King  Street,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  slope  near  St.  Luke's  Church.  It  had  once 

99 


100  THESE  TWAIN 

been  occupied  by  a  dentist  of  a  certain  grandeur,  and 
possessed  a  garden,  of  which,  however,  Auntie  Hamps 
had  made  a  wilderness.  The  old  lady  was  magnificent, 
but  her  magnificence  was  limited  to  herself.  She  could 
be  sublimely  generous,  gorgeously  hospitable,  but  only 
upon  special  occasions.  Her  teas,  at  which  a  fresh 
and  costly  pineapple  and  wonderful  confectionery  and 
pickled  salmon  and  silver  plate  never  lacked,  were  re- 
nowned, but  the  general  level  of  her  existence  was  very 
mean.  Her  servants,  of  whom  she  had  many,  though 
never  more  than  one  at  a  time,  were  not  only  obliged  to 
be  Wesleyan  Methodists  and  to  attend  the  Sunday 
night  service,  and  in  the  week  to  go  to  class-meeting  for 
the  purpose  of  confessing  sins  and  proving  the  power 
of  Christ, — they  were  obliged  also  to  eat  dripping  in- 
stead of  butter.  The  mistress  sometimes  ate  dripping, 
if  butter  ran  short  or  went  up  in  price.  She  considered 
herself  a  tremendous  housewife.  She  was  a  martyr  to 
her  housewifely  ideals.  Her  private  career  was  chiefly 
an  endless  struggle  to  keep  the  house  clean — to  get  for- 
ward with  the  work.  The  house  was  always  going  to 
be  clean  and  never  was,  despite  eternal  soap,  furniture- 
polish,  scrubbing,  rubbing.  Auntie  Hamps  never 
changed  her  frowsy  house-dress  for  rich  visiting  attire 
without  the  sad  thought  that  she  was  "leaving  some- 
thing undone."  The  servant  never  went  to  bed  with- 
out hearing  the  discontented  phrase:  "Well,  we  must 
do  it  to-morrow."  Spring-cleaning  in  that  house  lasted 
for  six  weeks.  On  days  of  hospitality  the  effort  to 
get  the  servant  "dressed"  for  tea-time  was  simply  des- 
perate, and  not  always  successful. 

Auntie  Hamps  had  no  sense  of  comfort  and  no  sense 
of  beauty.  She  was  incapable  of  leaning  back  in  a 
chair,  and  she  regarded  linoleum  as  one  of  the  most 
satisfactory  inventions  of  the  modern  age.  She  "saved'f 


THE  FAMILY  AT  TJQME  101, 

her  carpets  bj  means  of  patches  of  linoleum,  often 
stringy  at  the  edges,  and  in  some  rooms  there  was  more 
linoleum  than  anything  else.  In  the  way  of  renewals 
she  bought  nothing  but  linoleum, — unless  some  chapel 
bazaar  forced  her  to  purchase  a  satin  cushion  or  a 
hand-painted  grate-screen.  All  her  furniture  was  old, 
decrepit  and  ugly;  it  belonged  to  the  worst  Victorian 
period,  when  every  trace  of  the  eighteenth  century  had 
disappeared.  The  abode  was  always  oppressive.  l£ 
was  oppressive  even  amid  hospitality,  for  then  the  mere 
profusion  on  the  tables  accused  the  rest  of  the  interior, 
creating  a  feeling  of  discomfort;  and  moreover  Mrs. 
Hamps  could  not  be  hospitable  naturally.  She  could 
be  nothing  and  do  nothing  naturally.  She  could  no 
more  take  off  her  hypocrisy  than  she  could  take  off 
her  skin.  Her  hospitality  was  altogether  too  ruthless. 
And  to  satisfy  that  ruthlessness,  the  guests  had  always 
to  eat  too  much.  She  was  so  determined  to  demonstrate 
her  hospitality  to  herself,  that  she  would  never  leave 
a  guest  alone  until  he  had  reached  the  bursting  point. 

Hilda  sat  grimly  in  the  threadbare  sitting-room  amid' 
morocco-bound  photograph  albums,  oleographs,  and 
beady  knickknacks,  and  sniffed  the  strong  odour  of 
jam ;  and  in  the  violence  of  her  revolt  against  that  wide- 
spread messy  idolatrous  eternal  domesticity  of  which 
Auntie  Hamps  was  a  classic  example,  she  protested  that 
she  would  sooner  buy  the  worst  jam  than  make  the  best, 
and  that  she  would  never  look  under  a  table  for  dust, 
and  that  naught  should  induce  her  to  do  any  house- 
work after  midday,  and  that  she  would  abolish  spring- 
cleaning  utterly. 

The  vast  mediocre  respectability  of  the  district 
weighed  on  her  heart.  She  had  been  a  mistress-drudge 
in  Brighton  during  a  long  portion  of  her  adult  life; 
she  knew  the  very  depths  of  domesticity ;  but  at  Bright- 


1Q&  THESE  TWAIN 

on  the  eye  could  find  large,  rich,  luxurious,  and  some- 
times beautiful  things  for  its  distraction;  and  there 
was  the  sea.  In  the  Five  Towns  there  was  nothing. 
You  might  walk  from  one  end  of  the  Five  Towns  to 
the  other,  and  not  see  one  object  that  gave  a  thrill — 
unless  it  was  a  pair  of  lovers.  And  when  you  went  in- 
side the  houses  you  were  no  better  off, — you  were  even 
worse  off,  because  you  came  at  once  into  contact  with 
an  ignoble  race  of  slatternly  imprisoned  serfs  driven 
by  narrow-minded  women  who  themselves  were  serfs 
with  the  mentality  of  serfs  and  the  prodigious  conceit 
of  virtue.  .  .  .  Talk  to  Auntie  Hamps  at  home  of 
lawn-tennis  or  a  musical  evening,  and  she  would  set 
you  down  as  flighty,  and  shift  the  conversation  on  to 
soaps  or  chapels.  And  there  were  hundreds  of  houses 
in  the  Five  Towns  into  which  no  ideas-  save  the  ideas 
of  Auntie  Hamps  had  ever  penetrated,  and  tens  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  such  houses  all  over  the  in- 
dustrial districts  of  Staffordshire,  Cheshire,  Lan- 
cashire, and  Yorkshire, — houses  where  to  keep  bits  of 
wood  clean  and  to  fulfil  the  ceremonies  of  pietism,  and 
to  help  the  poor  to  help  themselves,  was  the  highest 
good,  the  sole  good.  Hilda  in  her  mind  saw  every 
house,  and  shuddered.  She  turned  for  relief  to  the 
thought  of  her  own  house,  and  in  a  constructive  spirit 
of  rebellion  she  shaped  instantaneously  a  conscious  pol- 
icy for  it.  ...  Yes,  she  took  oath  that  her  house 
should  at  any  rate  be  intelligent  and  agreeable  before 
it  was  clean.  She  pictured  Auntie  Hamps  gazing  at 
a  layer  of  dust  in  the  Clayhanger  hall,  and  heard  her- 
self saying:  "Oh,  yes,  Auntie,  it's  dust  right  enough. 
I  keep  it  there  on  purpose,  to  remind  me  of  something 
I  want  to  remember."  She  looked  round  Auntie 
Hamps's  sitting-room  and  revelled  grimly  in  the  mon- 
strous catalogue  of  its  mean  ugliness. 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  103 

And  then  Auntie  Hamps  came  in,  splendidly  and 
yet  soberly  attired  in  black  to  face  the  world,  with  her 
upright,  vigorous  figure,  her  sparkling  eye,  and  her 
admirable  complexion ;  self-content,  smiling  hospitably ; 
quite  unconscious  that  she  was  dead,  and  that  her  era 
was  dead,  and  that  Hilda  was  not  guiltless  of  the  mur- 
der. 

"This  is  nice  of  you,  Hilda.  It's  quite  an  honour." 
And  then,  archly:  "I'm  making  jam." 

"So  I  see,"  said  Hilda,  meaning  that  so  she  smelt. 
"I  just  looked  in  on  the  chance  of  seeing  Maggie." 

"Maggie  went  out  about  half-an-hour  ago." 

Auntie  Hamps's  expression  had  grown  mysterious, 
Hilda  thought :  "What's  she  hiding  from  me?" 

"Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  she.  "You're 
going  out  too,  Auntie." 

"I  do  wish  I'd  known  you  were  coming,  dear.  Will 
you  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"No,  no !    I  won't  keep  you." 

"But  it  will  be  a  pleasure,  dear,"  Auntie  Hamps  pro- 
tested warmly. 

"No,  no!  Thanks \  I'll  just  walk  along  with 
you  a  little  of  the  way.  Which  direction  are  you 
going?" 

Auntie  Hamps  hesitated,  she  was  in  a  dilemma. 

"What  is  she  hiding  from  me?"  thought  Hilda. 

"The  truth  is,"  said  Auntie  Hamps,  "I'm  just  pop- 
ping over  to  Clara's." 

"Well,  I'll  go  with  you,  Auntie." 

"Oh,  do !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamps  almost  passion- 
ately. "Do!  I'm  sure  Clara  wiU  be  delighted!"  She 
added  in  a  casual  tone:  "Maggie's  there." 

Thought  Hilda: 

"She  evidently  doesn't  want  me  to  go." 

After  Mrs.  Hamps  had  peered  into  the  grand  cop- 


104  THESE  TWAIN 

per  pan  and  most  particularly  instructed  the  servant, 
they  set  off. 

"I  shan't  be  easy  in  my  mind  until  I  get  back,"  said 
Auntie  Hamps.  "Unless  you  look  after  them  all  the 
time  they  always  forget  to  stir  it." 


When  they  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  the  Benbows' 
house  the  front-door  was  already  open,  and  Clara,  hold- 
ing Rupert — her  youngest — by  the  hand,  stood  smiling 
to  receive  them.  Obviously  they  had  been  descried  up 
the  street  from  one  of  the  bow- windows.  This  small 
fact,  strengthening  in  Hilda's  mind  the  gradually- 
formed  notion  that  the  Benbows  were  always  lying  in 
wait  and  that  their  existence  was  a  vast  machination 
for  getting  the  better  of  other  people,  enlivened  her 
prejudice  against  her  sister-in-law.  Moreover  Clara 
was  in  one  of  her  best  dresses,  and  her  glance  had  a 
peculiar  self-conscious  expression,  partly  guilty  and 
partly  cunning.  Nevertheless,  the  fair  fragility  of 
Clara's  face,  with  its  wonderful  skin,  and  her  manner, 
at  once  girlish  and  maternal,  of  holding  fast  the  child's 
hand,  reacted  considerably  against  Hilda's  prejudice. 

Rupert  was  freshly  all  in  white,  stitched  and  em- 
broidered with  millions  of  plain  and  fancy  stitches ;  he 
had  had  time  neither  to  tear  nor  to  stain;  only  on  his 
bib  there  was  a  spot  of  jam.  His  obese  right  arm  was 
stretched  straight  upwards  to  attain  the  immense 
height  of  the  hand  of  the  protective  giantess  his 
mother,  and  this  reaching  threw  the  whole  balance  of 
his  little  body  over  towards  the  left,  and  gave  him  a 
comical  and  wistful  appearance.  He  was  a  pretty  and 
yet  sturdy  child,  with  a  look  indicating  a  nice  disposi- 
tion, and  he  had  recently  been  acquiring  the  marvellous 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  105 

gift  of  speech.  .  .  .  Astounding  how  the  infantile 
brain  added  word  to  word  and  phrase  to  phrase,  and 
(as  though  there  were  not  enough)  actually  invented 
delicious  words  and  graphic  droll  phrases!  Nobody 
could  be  surprised  that  he  became  at  once  the  centre 
of  greetings.  His  grand-aunt  snatched  him  up,  and 
without  the  slightest  repugnance  he  allowed  the  ancient 
woman  to  bury  her  nose  in  his  face  and  neck. 

And  then  Hilda  embraced  him  with  not  less  pleas- 
ure, for  the  contact  of  his  delicate  flesh,  and  his  flushed 
timid  smile,  were  exquisite.  She  wished  for  a  moment 
that  George  was  only  two  and  a  half  again,  and  that 
she  could  bathe  him,  and  wipe  him,  and  nurse  him 
close.  Clara's  pride,  though  the  visitors  almost  for- 
got to  shake  hands  with  her,  was  ecstatic.  At  length 
Rupert  was  safely  on  the  step  once  more.  He  had 
made  no  remark  whatever.  Shyness  prevented  him 
from  showing  off  his  new  marvellous  gift,  but  his 
mother,  gazing  at  him,  said  that  in  ordinary  life  he 
never  stopped  chattering. 

"Come  this  way,  will  you?"  said  Clara  effusively,  and 
yet  conspiratorially,  pointing  to  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  to  the  left  of  the  front-door.  From  the 
dining-room,  which  was  to  the  right  of  the  front-door, 
issued  confused  sounds.  "Albert's  here.  I'm  so  glad 
you've  come,"  she  added  to  Hilda. 

Auntie  Hamps  murmured  warningly  into  Hilda's  ear: 

"It's  Bert's  birthday  party." 

A  fortnight  earlier  Hilda  had  heard  rumours  of 
Bert's  approaching  birthday — his  twelfth,  and  there- 
fore a  high  solemnity — but  she  had  very  wrongly  for- 
gotten about  it.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  Clara  re- 
peated in  the  drawing-room.  "I  was  afraid  you  might 
be  hurt.  I  thought  I'd  just  bring  you  in  here  first  and 
explain  it  all  to  you." 


106  THESE  TWAIN 

"Oh!  Bless  me!"  exclaimed  Auntie  Hamps, — inter- 
rupting, as  she  glanced  round  the  drawing-room.  "We 
are  grand!  Well  I  never!  We  are  grand!" 

"Do  you  like  it?"  said  Clara,  blushing. 

Auntie  Hamps  in  reply  told  one  of  the  major  lies  of 
her  career.  She  said  with  rapture  that  she  did  like 
the  new  drawing-room  suite.  This  suite  was  a  proof, 
disagreeable  to  Auntie  Hamps,  that  the  world  would 
never  stand  still.  It  quite  ignored  all  the  old  Vic- 
torian ideals  of  furniture;  and  in  ignoring  the  past,  i£ 
also  ignored  the  future.  Victorian  furniture  had  al- 
ways sought  after  immortality;  in  Bursley  there  were 
thousands  of  Victorian  chairs  and  tables  that  defied 
time  and  that  nothing  but  an  axe  or  a  conflagration 
could  destroy.  But  this  new  suite  thought  not  of  the 
morrow;  it  did  not  even  pretend  to  think  of  the  mor- 
row. Nobody  believed  that  it  would  last,  and  the 
owners  of  it  simply  forbore  to  reflect  upon  what  it 
would  be  after  a  few  years  of  family  use.  They  con- 
templated with  joy  its  first  state  of  dainty  freshness, 
and  were  content  therein.  Whereas  the  old  Victorians 
lived  in  the  future  (in  so  far  as  they  truly  lived  at 
all),  the  neo-Victorians  lived  careless  in  the  present. 

The  suite  was  of  apparent  rosewood,  with  salmon- 
tinted  upholstery  ending  in  pleats  and  bows.  But 
white  also  entered  considerably  into  the  scheme,  for 
enamel  paint  had  just  reached  Bursley  and  was  des- 
tined to  become  the  rage.  Among  the  items  of  the  suite 
was  a  three-legged  milking-stool  in  deal  covered  with 
white  enamel  paint  heightened  by  salmon-tinted  bows 
of  imitation  silk.  Society  had  recently  been  thunder- 
struck by  the  originality  of  putting  a  milking-stool  in 
a  drawing-room;  its  quaintness  appealed  with  tre- 
mendous force  to  nearly  all  hearts ;  nearly  every  house- 
mistress  on  seeing  a  milking-stool  in  a  friend's  draw- 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  107 

ing-room,  decided  that  she  must  have  a  milking-stool 
in  her  drawing-room,  and  took  measures  to  get  one. 
Clara  was  among  the  earlier  possessors,  the  pioneers. 
Ten  years — five  years — before,  Clara  had  appropriated 
the  word  "aesthetic"  as  a  term  of  sneering  abuse,  with 
but  a  vague  idea  of  its  meaning ;  and  now — such  is  the 
miraculous  effect  of  time — she  was  caught  up  in  the 
movement  as  it  had  ultimately  spread  to  the  Five 
Towns,  a  willing  convert  and  captive,  and  nothing 
could  exceed  her  scorn  for  that  which  once  she  had 
admired  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Into  that  mid- 
Victorian  respectable  house,  situate  in  a  rather  old- 
fashioned  street  leading  from  Shawport  Lane  to  the 
Canal,  and  whose  boast  (even  when  inhabited  by  non- 
jconf ormists )  was  that  it  overlooked  the  Rectory  gar- 
den, the  new  ideals  of  brightness,  freshness,  eccentricity, 
brittleness  and  impermanency  had  entered,  and  Auntie 
Hamps  herself  was  intimidated  by  them. 

Hilda  gave  polite  but  perfunctory  praise.  Lef£ 
alone,  she  might  not  have  been  averse  from  the  new 
ideals  in  their  more  expensive  forms,  but  the  influence 
of  Edwin  had  taught  her  to  despise  them.  Edwin's 
tastes  in  furniture,  imbibed  from  the  Orgreaves,  neg- 
lected the  modern,  and  went  even  further  back  than 
earliest  Victorian.  Much  of  the  ugliness  bought  by  his 
father  remained  in  the  Clayhanger  house,  but  all  Ed- 
win's own  purchases  were  either  antique,  or,  if  new, 
careful  imitations  of  the  pre- Victorian.  Had  England 
been  peopled  by  Edwins,  all  original  artists  in  furni- 
ture might  have  died  of  hunger.  Yet  he  encouraged 
original  literature.  What,  however,  put  Hilda  against 
Clara's  drawing-room  suite,  was  not  its  style,  nor  its 
enamel,  nor  its  frills,  nor  the  obviously  inferior  quality 
of  its  varnish,  but  the  mere  fact  that  it  had  been  ex- 
posed for  sale  in  Nixon's  shop-window  in  Duck  Bank, 


108  THESE  TWAIN 

with  the  price  marked.  Hilda  did  not  like  this.  Now 
Edwin  might  see  an  old  weather-glass  in  some  frowsy 
second-hand  shop  at  Hanbridge  or  Turnhill,  and  from 
indecision  might  leave  it  in  the  second-hand  shop  for 
months,  and  then  buy  it  and  hang  it  up  at  home, — and 
instantly  it  was  somehow  transformed  into  another 
weather-glass,  a  superior  and  personal  weather-glass. 
But  Clara's  suite  was  not — for  Hilda — thus  trans- 
formed. Indeed,  as  she  sat  there  in  Clara's  drawing- 
room,  she  had  the  illusion  of  sitting  in  Nixon's  shop. 

Further,  Nixon  had  now  got  in  his  window  another 
suite  precisely  like  Clara's.  It  was  astonishing  to 
Hilda  that  Clara  was  not  ashamed  of  the  publicity  and 
the  wholesale  reproduction  of  her  suite.  But  she  was 
not.  On  the  contrary  she  seemed  to  draw  a  mysteri- 
ous satisfaction  from  the  very  fact  that  suites  pre- 
cisely similar  to  hers  were  to  be  found  or  would  soon 
be  found  in  unnumbered  other  drawing-rooms.  Nor  did 
she  mind  that  the  price  was  notorious.  And  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  price  the  phrase  "hire-purchase"  flitted 
about  in  Hilda's  brain.  She  felt  sure  that  Albert  Ben- 
bow  had  not  paid  cash  to  Nixon.  She  regarded  the 
hire-purchase  system  as  unrespectable,  if  not  immoral, 
and  this  opinion  was  one  of  the  very  few  she  shared 
with  Auntie  Hamps.  Both  ladies  in  their  hearts,  and 
in  the  security  of  their  financial  positions,  blamed  the 
Benbows  for  imprudence.  Nobody,  not  even  his  wife, 
knew  just  how  Albert  "stood,"  but  many  took  leave 
to  guess — and  guessed  unfavourably. 

"Do  sit  down,"  said  Clara,  too  urgently.  She  was  so 
preoccupied  that  Hilda's  indifference  to  her  new  furni- 
ture did  not  affect  her. 

They  all  sat  down,  primly,  in  the  pretty  primness  of 
the  drawing-room,  and  Rupert  leaned  as  if  tired  against 
his  mother's  fine  skirt. 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  109 

Hilda,  expectant,  glanced  vaguely  about  her.  Auntie 
Hamps  did  the  same.  On  the  central  table  lay  a  dic- 
tionary of  the  English  language,  open  and  leaves 
downwards ;  and  near  it  a  piece  of  paper  containing  a 
long  list  of  missing  words  in  pencil.  Auntie  Hamps,  as 
soon  as  her  gaze  fell  on  these  objects,  looked  quickly 
away,  as  though  she  had  by  accident  met  the  obscene. 
Clara  caught  the  movement,  flushed  somewhat,  and  re- 
covered herself. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  repeated  yet  again  to 
Hilda,  with  a  sickly-sweet  smile.  "I  did  so  want  to  ex- 
plain to  you  how  it  was  we  didn't  ask  George — I  was 
afraid  you  might  be  vexed." 

"What  an  idea!"  Hilda  murmured  as  naturally  as 
she  could,  her  nostrils  twitching  uneasily  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  small  feuds  and  misunderstandings  which' 
Clara  breathed  with  such  pleasure.  She  laughed,  to 
reassure  Clara,  and  also  in  enjoyment  of  the  thought 
that  for  days  Clara  had  pictured  her  as  wondering 
sensitively  why  no  invitation  to  the  party  had  come 
for  George,  while  in  fact  the  party  had  never  crossed 
her  mind.  She  regretted  that  she  had  no  gift  for  Bert, 
but  decided  to  give  him  half-a-crown  for  his  savings- 
bank  account,  of  which  she  had  heard  a  lot. 

"To  tell  ye  the  truth,"  said  Clara,  launching  her- 
self, "we've  had  a  lot  of  trouble  with  Bert.  Albert's 
been  quite  put  about.  It  was  only  the  day  before  yes- 
terday Albert  got  out  of  him  the  truth  about  the  night 
of  your  At  Home,  Hilda,  when  he  ran  away  after  he'd 
gone  to  bed.  Albert  said  to  him :  'I  shan't  whip  you, 
and  I  shan't  put  you  on  bread  and  water.  Only  if  you 
don't  tell  me  what  you  were  doing  that  night  there'll 
be  no  birthday  and  no  birthday  party — that's  all.' 
So  at  last  Bert  gave  in.  And  d'you  know  what  he  was 
doing?  Holding  a  prayer-meeting  with  your  George 


110  THESE  TWAIN 

and  that  boy  of  Clowes's  next  door  to  your  house  down 
Hulton  Street.  Did  you  know?" 

Hilda  shook  her  head  bravely.  Officially  she  did  not 
know. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?"  exclaimed 
Auntie  Hamps. 

"Yes,"  proceeded  Clara,  taking  breath  for  a  new 
start.  "And  Bert's  story  is  that  they  prayed  for  a 
penknife  for  your  George,  and  it  came.  And  then  they 
prayed  for  a  bicycle  for  our  Bert,  but  the  bicycle  didn't 
come,  and  then  Bert  and  George  had  a  fearful  quar- 
rel, and  George  gave  him  the  penknife — made  him  have 
it — and  then  said  he'd  never  speak  to  him  any  more  as 
long  as  he  lived.  At  first  Albert  was  inclined  to  thrash 
Bert  for  telling  lies  and  being  irreverent,  but  in  the 
end  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  at  any  rate  Bert 
was  telling  what  he  thought  to  be  the  truth.  .  .  .  And 
that  Clowes  boy  is  so  little!  .  .  .  Bert  wanted  his 
birthday  party  of  course,  but  he  begged  and  prayed 
us  not  to  ask  George.  So  in  the  end  we  decided  we'd 
better  not,  and  we  let  him  have  his  own  way.  That's 
all  there  is  to  it.  ...  So  George  has  said  nothing?" 

"Not  a  word,"  replied  Hilda. 

"And  the  Clowes  boy  is  so  little!"  said  Clara  again. 
She  went  suddenly  to  the  mantelpiece  and  picked  up  a 
penknife  and  offered  it  to  Hilda. 

"Here's  the  penknife.  Of  course  Albert  took  it  off 
him." 

"Why?"  said  Hilda  ingenuously. 

But  Clara  detected  satire  and  repelled  it  with  a 
glance. 

"It's  not  Edwin's  penknife,  I  suppose?"  she  queried, 
in  a  severe  tone. 

"No,  it  isn't.    I've  never  seen  it  before.    Why  ?" 

"We  were  only  thinking  Edwin  might  have  over- 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  111 

heard  the  boys  and  thrown  a  knife  over  the  wall.  It 
would  be  just  like  Edwin,  that  would." 

"Oh,  no!"  The  deceitful  Hilda  blew  away  such  a 
possibility. 

"I'm  quite  sure  he  didn't,"  said  she,  and  added  mis- 
chievously as  she  held  out  the  penknife:  "I  thought 
all  you  folks  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer." 

These  simple  words  were  never  forgiven  by  Clara. 

The  next  moment,  having  restored  the  magic  pen- 
knife to  the  mantelpiece,  and  gathered  up  her  infant, 
she  was  leading  the  way  to  the  dining-room. 

"Come  along,  Rupy,  my  darling,"  said  she. 

"  'Rupy !' '  Hilda  privately  imitated  her,  deriding 
the  absurdity  of  the  diminutive. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Auntie  Hamps,  determined  to 
save  the  honour  of  the  family,  "it's  that  little  Clowes 
monkey  that  is  responsible.  I've  been  thinking  it  over 
since  you  told  me  about  it  last  night,  Clara,  and  I  feel 
almost  sure  it  must  have  been  that  little  Clowes  mon- 
key." 

She  was  magnificent.  She  was  no  longer  a  house- 
keeper worried  about  the  processes  of  jam-making,  but 
a  grandiose  figure  out  in  the  world,  a  figure  symbolic, 
upon  whom  had  devolved  the  duty  of  keeping  up  ap- 
pearances on  behalf  of  all  mankind. 


m 

The  dining-room  had  not  yet  begun  to  move  with 
the  times.  It  was  rather  a  shabby  apartment,  accus- 
tomed to  daily  ill-treatment,  and  its  contents  dated 
from  different  periods,  the  most  ancient  object  of  all 
stretching  backwards  in  family  history  to  the  epoch 
of  Albert's  great-grandfather.  This  was  an  oak  arm- 
chair, occupied  usually  by  Albert,  but  on  the  present 


THESE  TWAIN 

occasion  by  his  son  and  heir,  Bert.  Bert,  spectacled, 
was  at  the  head  of  the  table;  and  at  the  foot  was  his 
auntie  Maggie  in  front  of  a  tea-tray.  Down  the  sides 
of  the  table  were  his  sisters,  thin  Clara,  fat  Amy,  and 
little  Lucy — the  first  nearly  as  old  as  Bert — and  his 
father;  two  crumb-strewn  plates  showed  that  the 
mother  and  Rupert  had  left  the  meal  to  greet  the  vis- 
itors. And  there  were  two  other  empty  places.  In  a 
tiny  vase  in  front  of  Amy  was  a  solitary  flower.  The 
room  was  nearly  full ;  it  had  an  odour  of  cake,  tea,  and 
children. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Clara,  entering  with  the 
guests  and  Rupert,  very  cheerfully.  "Getting  on  all 
right?"  (She  gave  Albert  a  glance  which  said:  "I 
have  explained  everything,  but  Hilda  is  a  very  pe- 
culiar creature.") 

"Al,"  Albert  answered.     "Hello,  all  you  aunties!" 

"Albert  left  the  works  early  on  purpose,"  Clara  ex- 
plained her  husband's  presence. 

He  was  a  happy  man.  In  early  adolescence  he  had 
taken  to  Sunday  Schools  as  some  youths  take  to  vice. 
He  loved  to  exert  authority  over  children,  and  experi- 
ence had  taught  him  all  the  principal  dodges.  Under 
the  forms  of  benevolent  autocracy,  he  could  exercise  a 
ruthless  discipline  upon  youngsters.  He  was  not  at 
all  ashamed  at  being  left  in  charge  of  a  tableful  of 
children  while  his  wife  went  forth  to  conduct  diplo- 
matic interviews.  At  the  same  time  he  had  his  pride. 
Thus  he  would  express  no  surprise,  nor  even  pleasure, 
at  the  presence  of  Hilda,  his  theory  being  that  it  ought 
to  be  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  Indeed  he  was  pre- 
occupied by  the  management  of  the  meal,  and  he  did 
not  conceal  the  fact.  He  shook  hands  with  the  ladies 
in  a  perfunctory  style,  which  seemed  to  say:  "Now 
the  supreme  matter  is  this  birthday  repast.  I  am  run- 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  113 

ning  it,  and  I  am  running  it  very  well.  Slip  inobtru- 
sively  into  your  places  in  the  machine,  and  let  me  con- 
tinue my  work  of  direction." 

Nevertheless,  he  saw  to  it  that  all  the  children  rose 
politely  and  saluted  according  to  approved  precedents. 
His  eye  was  upon  them.  He  attached  importance  to 
every  little  act  in  any  series  of  little  acts.  If  he  cut 
the  cake,  he  had  the  air  of  announcing  to  the  world: 
"This  is  a  beautiful  cake.  I  have  carefully  estimated 
the  merits  of  this  cake,  and  mother  has  carefully  esti- 
mated them;  we  have  in  fact  all  come  to  a  definite  and 
favourable  conclusion  about  this  cake, — namely  that 
it  is  a  beautiful  cake.  I  will  now  cut  it.  The  opera- 
tion of  cutting  it  is  a  major  operation.  Watch  me  cut 
it,  and  then  watch  me  distribute  it.  Wisdom  and  jus- 
tice shall  preside  over  the  distribution."  Even  if  he 
only  passed  the  salt,  he  passed  it  as  though  he  were 
passing  extreme  unction. 

Auntie  Hamps  with  apparent  delight  adapted  her- 
self to  his  humour.  She  said  she  would  "squeeze  in" 
anywhere,  and  was  soon  engaged  in  finding  perfection 
in  everything  that  appertained  to  the  Benbow  family. 
Hilda,  not  being  quite  so  intimate  with  the  household, 
was  installed  with  more  ceremony.  She  could  not  keep 
out  of  her  eye  the  idea  that  it  was  droll  to  see  a  stout- 
ish,  somewhat  clay-dusted  man  neglecting  his  business 
in  order  to  take  charge  of  a  birthday-party  of  small 
children;  and  Albert,  observing  this,  could  not  keep 
out  of  his  eye  the  rebutting  assertion  that  it  was  not 
in  the  least  droll,  but  entirely  proper  and  laudable. 

The  first  mention  of  birthday  presents  came  from 
Auntie  Hamps,  who  remarked  with  enthusiasm  that 
Bert  looked  a  regular  little  man  in  his  beautiful  new 
spectacles.  Bert,  glowering,  gloomy  and  yet  proud, 
and  above  all  self-conscious,  grew  even  more  self-con- 


114*  THESE  TWAIN 

scious  at  this  statement.  Spectacles  had  been  ordained 
for  him  by  the  oculist,  and  his  parents  had  had  the 
hardihood  to  offer  him  his  first  pair  for  a  birthday 
present.  They  had  so  insisted  on  the  beauty  and  origi- 
nality of  the  scheme  that  Bert  himself  had  almost  come 
to  believe  that  to  get  a  pair  of  spectacles  for  a  birth- 
day present  was  a  great  thing  in  a  boy's  life.  He  was 
now  wearing  the  spectacles  for  the  first  time.  On  the 
whole,  gloom  outbalanced  pride  in  his  demeanour,  and 
Bert's  mysterious  soul,  which  had  flabbergasted  his 
father  for  about  a  week,  peeped  out  sidelong  occa- 
sionally through  those  spectacles  in  bitter  criticism  of 
the  institution  of  parents.  He  ate  industriously.  Soon 
Auntie  Hamps,  leaning  over,  rapped  half-a-sovereign 
down  on  his  sticky  plate.  Everybody  pretended  to  be 
overwhelmed,  though  nobody  entitled  to  prophesy  had 
expected  less.  Almost  simultaneously  with  the  ring  of 
the  gold  on  the  plate,  Clara  said: 

"Now  what  do  you  say?" 

But  Albert  was  judiciously  benevolent: 

"Leave  him  alone,  mother — he'll  say  it  all  right." 

"I'm  sure  he  will,"  his  mother  agreed. 

And  Bert  said  it,  blushing,  and  fingering  the  coin 
nervously.  And  Auntie  Hamps  sat  like  an  antique  god- 
dess, bland,  superb,  morally  immense.  And  even  her 
dirty  and  broken  finger-nails  detracted  naught  from  her 
grandiosity.  She  might  feed  servants  on  dripping,  but 
when  the  proper  moment  came  she  could  fling  half-sov- 
ereigns about  with  anybody. 

And  then,  opening  her  purse,  Hilda  added  five  shill- 
ings to  the  half-sovereign,  amid  admiring  exclamations 
sincere  and  insincere.  Beside  Auntie  Hamps's  gold  the 
two  half-crowns  cut  a  poor  figure,  and  therefore  Hilda, 
almost  without  discontinuing  the  gesture  of  largesse, 
said: 

' 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  115 

"That  is  from  Uncle  Edwin.  And  this,"  putting  a 
florin  and  three  shillings  more  to  the  treasure,  "is  from 
Auntie  Hilda." 

Somehow  she  was  talking  as  the  others  talked,  and 
she  disliked  herself  for  yielding  to  the  spirit  of  the  Ben- 
bow  home,  but  she  could  not  help  it;  the  pervading 
spirit  conquered  everybody.  She  felt  self-conscious; 
and  Bert's  self-consciousness  was  still  further  increased 
as  the  exclamations  grew  in  power  and  sincerity. 
Though  he  experienced  the  mournful  pride  of  rich  pos- 
sessions, he  knew  well  that  the  money  would  be  of  no 
real  value.  His  presents,  all  useful  (save  a  bouquet  of 
flowers  from  Rupert),  were  all  useless  to  him.  Thus  the 
prim  young  Clara  had  been  parentally  guided  to  give 
him  a  comb.  If  all  the  combs  in  the  world  had  been 
suddenly  annihilated  Bert  would  not  have  cared, — 
would  indeed  have  rejoiced.  And  as  to  the  spectacles, 
he  would  have  preferred  the  prospect  of  total  blind- 
ness in  middle  age  to  the  compulsion  of  wearing  them. 
Who  can  wonder  that  his  father  had  not  fathomed  the 
mind  of  the  strange  creature? 

Albert  gazed  rapt  at  the  beautiful  sight  of  the  plate. 
It  reminded  him  pleasantly  of  a  collection-plate  at  the 
Sunday  School  Anniversary  sermons.  In  a  moment  the 
conversation  ran  upon  savings-bank  accounts.  Each 
child  had  a  savings-bank  account,  and  their  riches  were 
astounding.  Rupert  had  an  account  and  was  getting 
interest  at  the  rate  of  two  and  a  half  per  cent  on  six 
pounds  ten  shillings.  The  thriftiness  of  the  elder  chil- 
dren had  reached  amounts  which  might  be  mentioned 
with  satisfaction  even  to  the  luxurious  wife  of  the  rich- 
est member  of  the  family.  Young  Clara  was  the 
wealthiest  of  the  band.  "I've  got  the  most,  haven't  I, 
fardy?"  she  said  with  complacency.  "I've  got  more 
than  Bert,  haven't  I?"  Nobody  seemed  to  know  how 


116  THESE  TWAIN 

it  was  that  she  had  surpassed  Bert,  who  had  had  more 
birthdays  and  more  Christmases.  The  inferiority  of 
the  eldest  could  not  be  attributed  to  dissipation  or  im- 
providence, for  none  of  the  children  was  allowed  to 
spend  a  cent.  The  savings-bank  devoured  all,  and 
never  rendered  back.  However,  Bert  was  now  creeping 
up,  and  his  mother  exhorted  him  to  do  his  best  in  fu- 
ture. She  then  took  the  money  from  the  plate,  and 
promised  Bert  for  the  morrow  the  treat  of  accompany- 
ing her  to  the  Post  Office  in  order  to  bury  it. 

A  bell  rang  within  the  house,  and  at  once  young 
Clara  exclaimed: 

"Oh!  There's  Flossie!  Oh,  my  word,  she  is  late, 
isn't  she,  fardy?  What  a  good  thing  we  didn't  wait 
tea  for  her !  .  .  .  Move  up,  miss."  This  to  Lucy. 

"People  who  are  late  must  take  the  consequences, 
especially  little  girls,"  said  Albert  in  reply. 

And  presently  Flossie  entered,  tripping,  shrugging 
up  her  shoulders  and  throwing  back  her  mane,  and 
wonderfully  innocent. 

"This  is  Flossie,  who  is  always  late,"  Albert  intro- 
duced her  to  Hilda. 

"Am  I  really?"  said  Flossie,  in  a  very  low,  soft  voice, 
with  a  bright  and  apparently  frightened  smile. 

Dark  Flossie  was  of  Amy's  age  and  supposed  to  be 
Amy's  particular  friend.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
young  Clara's  music  mistress.  The  little  girl's  prestige 
in  the  Benbow  house  was  due  to  two  causes.  First  she 
was  graceful  and  rather  stylish  in  movement — quali- 
ties which  none  of  the  Benbow  children  had,  though 
young  Clara  was  pretty  enough ;  and  second  her  mother 
had  rather  more  pupils  than  she  could  comfortably 
handle,  and  indeed  sometimes  refused  a  pupil. 

Flossie  with  her  physical  elegance  was  like  a  for- 
eigner among  the  Benbows.  She  had  a  precocious  de- 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  117 

meanour.  She  shook  hands  and  embraced  like  a  woman, 
and  she  gave  her  birthday  gift  to  Bert  as  if  she  were 
distributing  a  prize.  It  was  a  lead-pencil,  with  a 
patent  sharpener.  Bert  would  have  preferred  a  bi- 
cycle, but  the  patent  sharpener  made  an  oasis  in  his 
c  y.  His  father  pointed  out  to  him  that  as  the  pencil 
was  already  sharpened  he  could  not  at  present  use  the 
sharpener.  Amy  thereupon  furtively  passed  him  the 
stump  of  a  pencil  to  operate  upon,  and  then  his  mother 
told  him  that  he  had  better  postpone  his  first  sharpen- 
ing until  he  got  into  the  garden,  where  bits  of  wood 
would  not  be  untidy.  Flossie  carefully  settled  her  very 
short  white  skirts  on  a  chair,  smiling  all  the  time,  and 
enquired  about  two  brothers  whom  she  had  been  told 
were  to  be  among  the  guests.  Albert  informed  her  with 
solemnity  that  these  two  brothers  were  both  down  with 
measles,  and  that  Auntie  Hamps  and  Auntie  Hilda  had 
come  to  make  up  for  their  absence. 

"Poor  things !"  murmured  Flossie  sympathetically. 

Hilda  laughed,  and  Flossie  screwing  up  her  eyes  and 
shrugging  up  her  shoulders  laughed  too,  as  if  saying: 
"You  and  I  alone  understand  me." 

"What  a  pretty  flower !"  Flossie  exclaimed,  in  her 
low  soft  voice,  indicating  the  flower  in  the  vase  in  front 
of  Amy. 

"There's  half  a  crumb  left,"  said  Albert,  passing  the 
cake-plate  to  Flossie  carefully.  "We  thought  we'd  bet- 
ter keep  it  for  you,  though  we  don't  reckon  to  keep  any- 
thing for  little  girls  that  come  late." 

"Amy,"  whispered  her  mother,  leaning  towards  the 
fat  girl.  "Wouldn't  it  be  nice  of  you  to  give  your 
flower  to  Flossie?"  Amy  started. 

"I  don't  want  to,"  she  whispered  back,  flushing. 

The  flower  was  a  gift  to  Amy  from  Bert,  out  of  the 
birthday  bunch  presented  to  him  by  Rupert.  Mys- 


118  THESE  TWAIN 

terious  relations  existed  between  Bert  and  tne  be- 
nignant, acquiescent  Amy. 

"Oh !  Amy !"  her  mother  protested,  still  whispering, 
but  shocked. 

Tears  came  into  Amy's  eyes.  These  tears  Amy  at 
length  wiped  away,  and,  straightening  her  face,  offer :  "* 
the  flower  with  stiff  outstretched  arm  to  her  friend 
Flossie.  And  Flossie  smilingly  accepted  it. 

"It  is  kind  of  you,  you  darling!"  said  Flossie,  and 
stuck  the  flower  in  an  interstice  of  her  embroidered 
pinafore. 

Amy,  gravely  lacking  in  self-control,  began  to  whim- 
per again. 

"That's  my  good  little  girl !"  muttered  Clara  to  her, 
exhibiting  pride  in  her  daughter's  victory  over  self, 
and  rubbed  the  child's  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  The 
parents  were  continually  thus  "bringing  up"  their  chil- 
dren. Hilda  pressed  her  lips  together. 

Immediately  afterwards  it  was  noticed  that  Flossie 
was  no  longer  eating. 

"I've  had  quite  enough,  thank  you,"  said  she  in  an- 
swer to  expostulations. 

"No  jam,  even?    And  you've  not  finished  your  tea!" 

"I've  had  quite  enough,  thank  you,"  said  she,  and 
folded  up  her  napkin. 

"Please,  father,  can  we  go  and  play  in  the  garden 
now?"  Bert  asked. 

Albert  looked  at  his  wife. 

"Yes,  I  think  they  might,"  said  Clara.  "Go  and 
play  nicely."  They  all  rose. 

"Now  quietly,  qui-etly!"  Albert  warned  them. 

And  they  went  from  the  room  quietly,  each  in  his 
own  fashion, — Flossie  like  a  modest  tsarina,  young 
Clara  full  of  virtue  and  holding  Rupert  by  the  hand, 
Amy  lumpily,  tiny  Lucy  as  one  who  had  too  soon  been 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  119 

robbed  of  the  privilege  of  being  the  youngest,  and  Bert 
in  the  rear  like  a  criminal  who  is  observed  in  a  sus- 
picious act.  And  Albert  blew  out  wind,  as  if  getting 
rid  of  a  great  weight. 


rv 

"Finished  your  greengage,  auntie?"  asked  Clara, 
after  the  pause  which  ensued  while  the  adults  were  ac- 
customing themselves  to  the  absence  of  the  children. 

And  it  was  Maggie  who  answered,  rather  eagerly : 

"No,  she  hasn't.  She's  left  it  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  that  Maria.  She  wouldn't  let  me  stay,  and  she 
wouldn't  stay  herself." 

These  were  almost  the  first  words,  save  murmurings 
as  to  cups  of  tea,  quantities  of  sugar  and  of  milk,  etc., 
that  the  taciturn  Maggie  had  uttered  since  Hilda's  ar- 
rival. She  was  not  sulky,  she  had  merely  been  devot- 
ing herself  and  allowing  herself  to  be  exploited,  in  the 
vacuous  manner  customary  to  her, — and  listening  re- 
ceptively— or  perhaps  not  even  receptively — offering 
no  remark.  Save  that  the  smooth-working  mechanism 
of  the  repast  would  have  creaked  and  stopped  at  her 
departure,  she  might  have  slipped  from  the  room  un- 
noticed as  a  cat.  But -now  she  spoke  as  one  capable 
of  enthusiasm  and  resentment  on  behalf  of  an  ideal. 
To  her  it  was  scandalous  that  greengage  jam  should  be 
jeopardised  for  the  sake  of  social  pleasures,  and  sud- 
denly it  became  evident  she  and  her  auntie  had  had  a 
difference  on  the  matter. 

Mrs.  Hamps  said  stoutly  and  defiantly,  with 
grandeur : 

"Well,  I  wasn't  going  to  have  my  eldest  grand- 
nephew's  twelfth  birthday  party  interfered  with  for 
any  jam." 


120  THESE  TWAIN 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  Hilda,  liking  the  terrific  woman 
for  an  instant. 

But  mild  Maggie  was  inflexible. 

Clara,  knowing  that  in  Maggie  very  slight  symptoms 
had  enormous  significance,  at  once  changed  the  sub- 
ject. Albert  went  to  the  back  window,  whence  by 
twisting  his  neck  he  could  descry  a  corner  of  the  gar- 
den. 

Said  Clara,  smiling: 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  have  some  musical  evenings, 
Hilda  ...  on  Sunday  nights." 

Malice  and  ridicule  were  in  Clara's  tone.  On  the 
phrase  "musical  evenings"  she  put  a  strange  disdainful 
emphasis,  as  though  a  musical  evening  denoted  some- 
thing not  only  unrighteous  but  snobbish,  new-fangled, 
and  absurd.  Yet  envy  also  was  in  her  tone. 

Hilda  was  startled. 

"Ah!    Who  told  you  that?" 

"Never  mind !    I  heard,"  said  Clara  darkly. 

Hilda  wondered  where  the  Benbows,  from  whom  seem- 
ingly naught  could  be  concealed,  had  in  fact  got  this 
tit-bit  of  news.  By  tacit  consent  she  and  Edwin  had 
as  yet  said  nothing  to  anybody  except  the  Orgreaves, 
who  alone,  with  Tertius  Ingpen  and  one  or  two  more 
intimates,  were  invited,  or  were  to  be  invited,  to  the 
first  evening.  Relations  between  the  Orgreaves  and  the 
Benbows  scarcely  existed. 

"We're  having  a  little  music  on  Sunday  night,"  said 
Hilda,  as  it  were  apologetically,  and  scorning  herself 
for  being  apologetic.  Why  should  she  be  apologetic  to 
these  base  creatures?  But  she  couldn't  help  it;  the 
public  opinion  of  the  room  was  too  much  for  her.  She 
even  added:  "We're  hoping  that  old  Mrs.  Orgreave 
will  come.  It  will  be  the  first  time  she's  been  out  in 
the  evening  for  ever  so  long."  The  name  of  Mrs.  Or- 


THE  FAMILY  AT  J  :  >J 


their  mootfe, 

No  name,  however,  could  0r*r*ve  Mr*,  H«fiu 
Muled  loudly?  tuna  with  iwpect  for  tlie  iMjyncttif  of 
other*;  *he  tpofce  in  *  toot  cseeptmMltf  jwlsfev—  tot 

*he  Mud  WM;    ^Fm  tony  *   *   *  I*» 
Tbe  ddireMacr  WM  iML    Aortic 


of 

IMHU    Is 

HMW—  joft  M  in 

would  fc*r*  poae^Mt^  B*rtf  f  brrtWAj 
with  dfffitifttf  yp<Mi  tlW"  ffftQttftf  €ff  Iw 
Moral  dfcortfttHM*  to  liMirlf?  but  Am&  H*wp* 


t&TTj     WttttA  flHMll  frOV  JKf* 


wbidi  *p*f»ted  brr  Md  Edwi.  f  ro»  tibe  mi 


fett  tfet  ft*?  l*d  fterer  for  * 
Midi*  mmjbody  m  the  UmAj  to  the 

•orlMdthe 
ft 


-.-  >\  >-.;    :>^     -,.'  <      >^ 


122  THESE  TWAIN 

mistake.  Why  was  she  there?  Was  she  not  tied  by 
intimate  experience  to  a  man  at  that  very  instant  in 
prison?  (She  had  a  fearful  vision  of  him  in  prison, — 
she,  sitting  there  in  the  midst  of  Maggie,  Clara,  and 
Auntie  Hamps!)  Was  she  not  the  mother  of  an  il- 
legitimate boy  ?  Victimised  or  not,  innocent  or  not,  she, 
a  guest  at  Bert's  intensely  legitimate  birthday  fete, 
was  the  mother  of  an  illegitimate  boy.  Incredible  1  She 
ought  never  to  have  married  into  the  Clayhangers, 
never  to  have  come  back  to  this  cackling  provincial  dis- 
trict. All  these  people  were  inimical  towards  her, — 
because  she  represented  the  luxury  and  riches  and 
worldly  splendour  of  the  family,  and  because  her  il- 
legitimate boy  had  tempted  the  heir  of  the  Benbows 
to  blasphemous  wickedness,  and  because  she  herself  had 
tempted  a  weak  Edwin  to  abandon  chapel  and  to  dese- 
crate the  Sabbath,  and  again  because  she,  without  a 
penny  of  her  own,  had  stepped  in  and  now  represented 
the  luxury  and  riches  and  worldly  splendour  of  the 
family.  And  all  the  family's  grievances  against  Ed- 
win were  also  grievances  against  her.  Once,  long  ago, 
when  he  was  yet  a  bachelor,  and  had  no  hope  of  Hilda, 
Edwin  had  prevented  his  father,  in  dotage,  from  lend- 
ing a  thousand  pounds  to  Albert  upon  no  security. 
The  interference  was  unpardonable,  and  Hilda  would 
not  be  pardoned  for  it. 

Such  was  marriage  into  a  family.  Such  was  family 
life.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  felt  unreal  there,  and  also  unsafe. 
She  had  prevaricated  about  George  and  the  penknife; 
and  she  had  allowed  Clara  to  remain  under  the  impres- 
sion that  her  visit  to  the  house  was  a  birthday  visit. 
Auntie  Hamps  and  destiny,  between  them,  would  lay 
bare  all  this  lying.  The  antipathy  against  her  would 
increase.  But  let  it  increase  never  so  much,  it  still 
would  not  equal  Hilda's  against  the  family,  as  she 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME 

thrilled  to  it  then.  Their  narrow  ignorance,  their  nar- 
row self-conceit,  their  detestation  of  beauty,  their  pie- 
tism, their  bigotry — revolted  her.  In  what  century  had 
they  been  living  all  those  years?  Was  this  married 
life?  Had  Albert  and  Clara  ever  felt  a  moment  of 
mutual  passion?  They  were  nothing  but  parents,  eter- 
nally preoccupied  with  "oughts"  and  "ought  nots"  and 
forbiddances  and  horrid  reluctant  permissions.  They 
did  not  know  what  j  oy  was,  and  they  did  not  want  any- 
body else  to  know  what  j  oy  was.  Even  on  the  outskirts 
of  such  a  family,  a  musical  evening  on  a  Sunday  night 
appeared  a  forlorn  enterprise.  And  all  the  families  in 
all  the  streets  were  the  same.  Hilda  was  hard  enough 
on  George  sometimes,  but  in  that  moment  she  would 
have  preferred  George  to  be  a  thoroughly  bad  rude 
boy  and  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  herself  to  be  a  woman 
abandoned  to  every  licence,  rather  than  that  he  and 
she  should  resemble  Clara  and  her  offspring.  All  her 
wrath  centred  upon  Clara  as  the  very  symbol  of  what 
she  loathed. 

"Hello!"  cried  the  watchful  Albert  from  the  win- 
rdow.  "What's  happening,  I  wonder?" 

In  a  moment  Rupert  ran  into  the  room,  and  without 
a  word  scrambled  on  his  mother's  lap,  absolutely  con- 
fident in  her  goodness  and  power. 

"What's  amiss,  tuppenny?"  asked  his  father. 

"Tired,"  answered  Rupert,  with  a  faint,  endearing 
smile. 

He  laid  himself  close  against  his  mother's  breast, 
and  drew  up  his  knees,  and  Clara  held  his  body  in  her 
arms,  and  whispered  to  him. 

"Amy  'udn't  play  with  me,"  he  murmured. 

"Wouldn't  she?    Naughty  Amy!" 

"Mammy  tired  too,"  he  glanced  upwards  at  his 
mother's  eyes  in  sympathy. 


THESE  TWAIN 

And  immediately  he  was  asleep.  Clara  kissed  him, 
bending  her  head  down  and  with  difficulty  reaching  his 
cheek  with  her  lips. 

Auntie  Hamps  enquired  fondly: 

"What  does  he  mean — 'mother  tired  too'  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Clara,  "the  fact  is  some  of  'em  were 
so  excited  they  stopped  my  afternoon  sleep  this  after- 
noon. I  always  do  have  my  nap,  you  know," — she 
looked  at  Hilda.  "In  here!  When  this  door's  closed 
they  know  mother  mustn't  be  disturbed.  Only  this  aft- 
ernoon Lucy  or  Amy — I  don't  know  which,  and  I  didn't 
enquire  too  closely — forgot.  .  .  .  He's  remembered  it, 
the  little  Turk." 

"Is  he  asleep  ?"  Hilda  demanded  in  a  low  voice. 

"Fast.  He's  been  like  that  lately.  He'll  play  a  bit, 
and  then  he'll  stop,  and  say  he's  tired,  and  sometimes 
cry,  and  he'll  come  to  me  and  be  asleep  in  two  jiffs. 
I  think  he's  been  a  bit  run  down.  He  said  he  had  tooth- 
ache yesterday.  It  was  nothing  but  a  little  cold; 
they've  all  had  colds;  but  I  wrapped  his  face  up  to 
please  him.  He  looked  so  sweet  in  his  bandage,  I 
assure  you  I  didn't  want  to  take  it  off  again.  No,  I 
didn't.  .  ,  .  I  wonder  why  Amy  wouldn't  play  with 
him?  She's  such  a  splendid  playmate — when  she  likes. 
Full  of  imagination!  Simply  full  of  it!" 

Albert  had  approached  from  the  window. 

With  an  air  of  important  conviction,  he  said  to 
Hilda: 

"Yes,  Amy's  imagination  is  really  remarkable.'*  As 
no  one  responded  to  this  statement,  he  drummed  on 
the  table  to  ease  the  silence,  and  then  suddenly  added: 
"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be  getting  on  with  my  dic- 
tionary reading!  I'm  only  at  S;  and  there's  bound 
to  be  a  lot  of  words  under  U — beginning  with  un, 
you  know.  I  saw  at  once  there  would  be."  He  spoke. 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  125 

rather  defiantly,  as  though  challenging  public  opinion 
to  condemn  his  new  dubious  activity. 

"Oh!"  said  Clara.  "Albert's  quite  taken  up  with 
missing  words  nowadays." 

But  instead  of  conning  his  dictionary,  Albert  re- 
turned to  the  window,  drawn  by  his  inexhaustible  pater- 
nal curiosity,  and  he  even  opened  the  window  and 
leaned  out,  so  that  he  might  more  effectively  watch 
the  garden.  And  with  the  fresh  air  there  entered 
the  high,  gay,  inspiriting  voices  of  the  children. 

Clara  smiled  down  at  the  boy  sleeping  in  her  lap. 
She  was  happy.  The  child  was  happy.  His  flushed  face, 
with  its  expression  of  loving  innocence,  was  exquisitely 
touching.  Clara's  face  was  full  of  proud  tenderness. 
Everybody  gazed  at  the  picture  with  secret  and  pro- 
found pleasure.  Hilda  wished  once  more  that  George 
was  only  two  and  a  half  years  old  again.  George's 
infancy,  and  her  early  motherhood,  had  been  very  dif- 
ferent from  all  this.  She  had  never  been  able  to  shut 
a  dining-room  door,  or  any  other  door,  as  a  sign  that 
she  must  not  be  disturbed.  And  certainly  George 
had  never  sympathetically  remarked  that  she  was  tired. 
.  .  .  She  was  envious.  .  .  .  And  yet  a  minute  ago  she 
had  been  execrating  the  family  life  of  the  Benbows. 
The  complexity  of  the  tissue  of  existence  was  puzzling. 


When  Albert  brought  his  head  once  more  into  the 
room  he  suddenly  discovered  the  stuffiness  of  the  atmos- 
phere, and  with  the  large,  free  gestures  of  a  moun- 
taineer and  a  sanitarian  threw  open  both  windows  as 
wide  as  possible.  The  bleak  wind  from  the  moorlands 
surged  in,  fluttering  curtains,  and  lowering  the  tem- 
perature at  a  run. 


126  THESE  TWAIN 

"Won't  Rupert  catch  cold?"  Hilda  suggested, 
chilled. 

"He's  got  to  be  hardened,  Rupert  has!"  Albert 
replied  easily.  "Fresh  air!  Nothing  like  it!  Does 
'em  good  to  feel  it!" 

Hilda  thought: 

"Pity  you  didn't  think  so  a  bit  earlier !" 

Her  countenance  was  too  expressive.  Albert  divined 
some  ironic  thought  in  her  brain,  and  turned  on  her 
with  a  sort  of  parrying  jeer: 

"And  how's  the  great  man  getting  along?" 

In  this  phrase,  which  both  he  and  Clara  employed 
with  increasing  frequency,  Albert  let  out  not  only  his 
jealousy  of,  but  his  respect  for,  the  head  of  the  family. 
Hilda  did  not  like  it,  but  it  flattered  her  on  Edwin's 
behalf,  and  she  never  showed  her  resentment  of  the 
attitude  which  prompted  it. 

"Edwin?  Oh,  he's  all  right.  He's  working."  She 
put  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  last  pronoun,  in  order 
revengefully  to  contrast  Edwin's  industry  with  Albert's 
presence  during  business  hours  at  a  children's  birthday 
party.  "He  said  to  me  as  he  went  out  that  he  must 
go  and  earn  something  towards  Maggie's  rent."  She 
laughed  softly. 

Clara  smiled  cautiously;  Maggie  smiled  and  blushed 
a  little;  Albert  did  not  commit  himself;  only  Auntie 
Hamps  laughed  without  reserve. 

"Edwin  will  have  his  joke,"  said  she. 

Although  Hilda  had  audaciously  gone  forth  that 
afternoon  with  the  express  intention  of  opening  ne- 
gotiations, on  her  own  initiative,  with  Maggie  for 
the  purchase  of  the  house,  she  had  certainly  not 
meant  to  discuss  the  matter  in  the  presence  of  the 
entire  family.  But  she  was  seized  by  one  of  her 
characteristic  impulses,  and  she  gave  herself  up  ta 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME 

it  with  the  usual  mixture  of  glee  and  apprehension. 
She  said: 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  care  to  sell  u*  the  house, 
would  you,  Maggie?" 

Everybody  became  alert,  and  as  it  grew  apparent 
that  the  company  was  assisting  at  the  actual  birth  of 
a  family  episode  or  incident,  a  peculiar  feeling  of 
eager  pleasure  spread  through  the  room,  and  the  appe- 
tite for  history-making  leapt  up. 

"Indeed  I  should!"  Maggie  answered,  with  a  deep- 
ening flush,  and  all  were  astonished  at  her  decisiveness, 
and  at  the  warmth  of  her  tone.  "I  never  wanted  the 
house.  Only  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  have  it,  so 
of  course  I  took  it."  The  long-silent  victim  was  speak- 
ing. Money  was  useless  to  her,  for  she  was  incapable 
of  turning  it  into  happiness;  but  she  had  her  views 
on  finance  and  property,  nevertheless;  and  though  in 
all  such  matters  she  did  as  she  was  told,  submissively 
accepting  the  decisions  of  brother  or  brother-in-law 
as  decrees  of  fate,  yet  she  was  quite  aware  of  the 
victimhood.  The  assemblage  was  surprised  and  even 
a  little  intimidated  by  her  mild  outburst. 

"But  you've  got  a  very  good  tenant,  Maggie,"  said 
Auntie  Hamps  enthusiastically. 

"She's  got  a  very  good  tenant,  admitted!"  Albert 
said  judicially  and  almost  sternly.  "But  she'd  never 
have  any  difficulty  in  finding  a  very  good  tenant  for 
that  house.  That's  not  the  point.  The  point  is  that 
the  investment  really  isn't  remunerative.  Maggie  could 
do  much  better  for  herself  than  that.  Very  much 
better.  Why,  if  she  went  the  right  way  about  it  she 
could  get  ten  per  cent  on  her  money!  I  know  of 
things.  .  .  .  And  I  bet  she  doesn't  get  three  and  a 
half  per  cent  clear  from  the  house.  Not  three  and 
a  half."  He  glanced  reproachfully  at  Hilda. 


128  THESE  TWAIN 

"Do  you  mean  the  rent's  too  low?"  Hilda  questioned 
boldly. 

He  hesitated,  losing  courage. 

"I  don't  say  it's  too  low.  But  Maggie  perhaps  took 
the  house  over  at  too  big  a  figure." 

Maggie  looked  up  at  her  brother-in-law. 

"And  whose  fault  was  that?"  she  asked  sharply. 
The  general  surprise  was  intensified.  No  one  could 
understand  Maggie.  No  one  had  the  wit  to  perceive 
that  she  had  been  truly  annoyed  by  Auntie  Hamps's 
negligence  in  regard  to  jam,  and  was  momentarily 
capable  of  bitterness.  "Whose  fault  was  that?"  she 
repeated.  "You  and  Clara  and  Edwin  settled  it  be- 
tween you.  You  yourself  said  over  and  over  again  it 
was  a  fair  figure." 

"I  thought  so  at  the  time!  I  thought  so  at  the 
time!"  said  Albert  quickly.  "We  aU  acted  for  the 
best." 

"I'm  sure  you  did,"  murmured  Auntie  Hamps. 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed!"  murmured  Clara,  seek- 
ing to  disguise  her  constraint  by  attentions  to  the 
sleeping  Rupert. 

"Is  Edwin  thinking  of  buying,  then?"  Albert  asked 
Hilda  in  a  quiet,  studiously  careless  voice. 

"We've  discussed  it,"  responded  Hilda. 

"Because  if  he  is,  he  ought  to  take  it  over  at  the 
price  Mag  took  it  at.  She  oughtn't  to  lose  on  it. 
That's  only  fair." 

"I'm  sure  Edwin  would  never  do  anything  unfair," 
said  Auntie  Hamps. 

Hilda  made  no  reply.  She  had  already  heard  the  ar- 
gument from  Edwin,  and  Albert  now  seemed  to  her 
more  tedious  and  unprincipled  than  usual.  Her  rea- 
son admitted  the  force  of  the  argument  as  regards 
Maggie,  but  instinct  opposed  it. 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  129 

Nevertheless  she  was  conscious  of  sudden  sympathy 
for  Maggie,  and  of  a  weakening  of  her  prejudice  against 
her. 

"Hadn't  we  better  be  going,  Auntie?"  Maggie  curtly 
and  reproachfully  suggested.  "You  know  quite  well 
that  jam  stands  a  good  chance  of  being  ruined." 

"I  suppose  we  had,"  Auntie  Hamps  concurred  with 
a  sigh,  and  rose. 

"I  shall  be  able  to  carry  out  my  plan,"  thought 
Hilda,  full  of  wisdom  and  triumph.  And  she  saw 
Edwin,  owner  of  the  house,  with  his  wild  lithographic 
project  scotched.  And  the  realisation  of  her  own 
sagacity  thus  exercised  on  behalf  of  those  she  loved, 
made  her  glad. 

At  the  same  moment,  just  as  Albert  was  recommenc- 
ing his  flow,  the  door  opened  and  Edwin  entered.  He 
had  glimpsed  the  children  in  the  garden  and  had  come 
into  the  house  by  the  back  way.  There  were  'cries  of 
stupefaction  and  bliss.  Both  Albert  and  Clara  were 
unmistakably  startled  and  flattered.  Indeed,  several 
seconds  elapsed  before  Albert  could  assume  the  proper 
grim,  casual  air.  Auntie  Hamps  rejoiced  and  sat  down 
again.  Maggie  disclosed  no  feeling,  and  she  would  not- 
sit  down  again.  Hilda  had  a  serious  qualm.  She  was 
obliged  to  persuade  herself  that  in  opening  the  nego- 
tiations for  the  house  she  had  not  committed  an  enor- 
mity. She  felt  less  sagacious  and  less  dominant.  Who* 
could  have  dreamt  that  Edwin  would  pop  in  just  then? 
It  was  notorious,  it  was  even  a  subject  of  complaint^ 
that  he  never  popped  in.  In  reply  to  enquiries  he 
stammered  in  his  customary  hesitating  way  that  he 
happened  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood  on  business  and 
that  it  had  occurred  to  him,  etc.,  etc.  In  short,  there 
he  was. 

"Aren't   you   coming,   Auntie?"   Maggie   demanded. 


130  THESE  TWAIN 

"Let  me  have  a  look  at  Edwin,  child,"  said  Auntie 
Hamps,  somewhat  nettled.  "How  set  you  are!" 

"Then  I  shall  go  alone,"  said  Maggie. 

"Yes.  But  what  about  this  house  business?"  Albert 
tried  to  stop  her. 

He  could  not  stop  her.  Finance,  houses,  rents,  were 
not  real  to  her.  She  owned  but  did  not  possess  such 
things.  But  the  endangered  jam  was  real  to  her.  She 
did  not  own  it,  but  she  possessed  it.  She  departed. 

"What's  amiss  with  her  to-day?"  murmured  Mrs. 
Hamps.  "I  must  go  too,  or  I  shall  be  catching  it; 
my  word  I  shall!" 

"What  house  business?"  Edwin  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Albert.  "I  like  that!  Aren't  you 
trying  to  buy  her  house  from  her?  We've  just  been 
talking  it  over.'' 

Edwin  glanced  swiftly  at  Hilda,  and  Hilda  knew 
from  the  peculiar  constrained,  almost  shamefaced, 
expression  on  his  features,  that  he  was  extremely  an- 
noyed. He  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"Oh!     Have  ye?"  he  muttered. 

VI 

Although  Edwin  discussed  the  purchase  of  the  house 
quite  calmly  with  Albert,  and  appeared  to  regard  it  as 
an  affair  practically  settled,  Hilda  could  perceive  from 
a  single  gesture  of  his  in  the  lobby  as  they  were  leav- 
ing, that  his  resentment  against  herself  had  not  been 
diminished  by  the  smooth  course  of  talking.  Never- 
theless she  was  considerably  startled  by  his  outburst  in 
the  street. 

"It's  a  pity  Maggie  went  off  like  that,"  she  said 
quietly.  "You  might  have  fixed  everything  up  imme- 
diately." 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  131 

Then  it  was  that  he  turned  on  her,  glowering  an- 
grily. 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  go  talking  about  it,  without 
telling  me  first?"  he  demanded,  furious. 

"But  it  was  understood,  dear "  She  smiled, 

affecting  not  to  perceive  his  temper,  and  thereby  ag- 
gravating it. 

He  almost  shouted: 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!    Nothing  of  the  kind!" 

"Maggie  was  there.  I  just  happened  to  mention 
it."  Hilda  was  still  quite  placid. 

"You  went  down  on  purpose  to  tell  her,  so  you 
needn't  deny  it.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?" 

Her  placidity  was  undiminished. 

"Of  course  I  don't  take  you  for  a  fool,  dear.  I 
assure  you  I  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  you'd  be  an- 
noyed." 

"Yes,  you  had.  I  could  see  it  on  your  face  when  I 
came  in.  Don't  try  to  stuff  me  up.  You  go  blunder- 
ing into  a  thing,  without  the  least  notion — without 
the  least  notion!  I've  told  you  before,  and  I  tell  you 
again — I  won't  have  you  interfering  in  my  business 
affairs.  You  know  nothing  of  business.  You'll  make 
my  life  impossible.  All  you  women  are  the  same.  You 
will  poke  your  noses  in.  There'll  have  to  be  a  clear 
understanding  between  you  and  me  on  one  or  two 
points,  before  we  go  much  further." 

"But  you  told  me  I  could  mention  it  to  her." 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"You  did,  Edwin.     Do  be  just." 

"I  didn't  say  you  could  go  and  plunge  right  into  it 
at  once.  These  things  have  to  be  thought  out.  Houses 
aren't  bought  like  that.  A  house  isn't  a  pound  of  tea, 
and  it  isn't  a  hat." 

"I'm  very  sorry." 


THESE  TWAIN 

"No,  you  aren't.  And  you  know  jolly  well  you 
aren't.  Your  scheme  was  simply  to  tie  my  hands." 

She  knew  the  truth  of  this,  and  her  smile  became 
queer.  Nevertheless  the  amiable  calm  which  she  main- 
tained astonished  even  herself.  She  was  not  happy, 
but  certainly  she  was  not  unhappy.  She  had  got,  or 
she  was  going  to  get,  what  she  wanted;  and  here  was 
the  only  fact  important  to  her;  the  means  by  which 
she  had  got  it,  or  was  going  to  get  it,  were  negligible 
now.  It  cost  her  very  little  to  be  magnanimous.  She 
wondered  at  Edwin.  Was  this  furious  brute  the  timid, 
worshipping  boy  who  had  so  marvellously  kissed  her 
a  dozen  years  earlier — before  she  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  a  scoundrel?  Were  these  scenes  what  the 
exquisite  romance  of  marriage  had  come  to  ?  .  .  .  Well, 
and  if  it  was  so,  what  then?  If  she  was  not  happy 
she  was  elated,  and  she  was  philosophic,  and  she  had 
the  terrific  sense  of  realities  of  some  of  her  sex.  She 
was  out  of  the  Benbow  house;  she  breathed  free,  she 
had  triumphed,  and  she  had  her  man  to  herself.  He 
might  be  a  brute — the  Five  Towns  (she  had  noticed 
as  a  returned  exile)  were  full  of  brutes  whose  passions 
surged  and  boiled  beneath  the  phlegmatic  surface — 
but  he  existed,  and  their  love  existed.  And  a  peep 
into  the  depth  of  the  cauldron  was  exciting.  .  .  .  The 
injustice  or  the  justice  of  his  behaviour  did  not  make 
a  live  question. 

Moreover,  she  did  not  in  truth  seriously  regard  him 
as  a  brute.  She  regarded  him  as  an  unreasonable  crea- 
ture, something  like  a  baby,  to  be  humoured  in  the 
inessentials  of  a  matter  of  which  the  essentials  were 
now  definitely  in  her  favour.  His  taunt  that  she  went 
blundering  into  a  thing,  and  that  she  knew  naught  of 
business,  amused  her.  She  knew  her  own  business, 
and  knew  it  profoundly.  The  actual  situation  was  a 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  133 

proof  of  that.  As  for  abstract  principles  of  business, 
the  conventions  and  etiquette  of  it — her  lips  conde- 
scendingly curled.  After  all,  what  had  she  done  to 
merit  this  fury?  Nothing!  Nothing!  What  could  it 
matter  whether  the  negotiations  were  begun  instantly 
or  in  a  week's  or  a  month's  time?  (Edwin  would  have 
dilly-dallied  probably  for  three  months,  or  six).  She 
had  merely  said  a  few  harmless  words,  offered  a  sug- 
gestion. And  now  he  desired  to  tear  her  limb  from 
h'mb  and  eat  her  alive.  It  was  comical!  Impossible 
for  her  to  be  angry,  in  her  triumph!  It  was  too 
comical!  She  had  married  an  astounding  personage. 
.  .  .  But  she  had  married  him.  He  was  hers.  She 
exulted  in  the  possession  of  him.  His  absurd  peculiari- 
ties did  not  lower  him  in  her  esteem.  She  had  a  per- 
fect appreciation  of  his  points,  including  his  general 
wisdom.  But  she  was  convinced  that  she  had  a  special 
and  different  and  superior  kind  of  wisdom. 

"And  a  nice  thing  you've  let  Maggie  in  for !"  Edwin 
broke  out  afresh  after  a  spell  of  silent  walking. 

"Let  Maggie  in  for?"  she  exclaimed  lightly. 

"Albert  ought  never  to  have  known  anything  of  it 
until  it  was  all  settled.  He  will  be  yarning  away  to  her 
about  how  he  can  use  her  money  for  her,  and  what  he 
gets  hold  of  she'll  never  see  again, — you  may  bet  your 
boots  on  that.  If  you'd  left  it  to  me  I  could  have  fixed 
things  up  for  her  in  advance.  But  no !  In  you  must 
go !  Up  to  the  neck !  And  ruin  everything !" 

"Oh !"  she  said  reassuringly.  "You'll  be  able  to  look 
after  Maggie  all  right." 

He  sniffed,  and  settled  down  into  embittered  disgust, 
quickening  somewhat  his  speed  up  the  slope  of  Acre 
Lane. 

"Please  don't  walk  so  fast,  Edwin,"  she  breathed, 
just  like  a  nice  little  girl.  "I  can't  keep  up  with  you.'' 


134  THESE  TWAIN 

In  spite  of  his  enormous  anger  he  could  not  refuse 
such  a  request.  She  was  getting  the  better  of  him 
again.  He  knew  it;  he  could  see  through  the  devices. 
With  an  irritated  swing  of  his  body  he  slowed  down  to 
suit  her. 

She  had  a  glimpse  of  his  set,  gloomy,  savage,  ruth- 
less face,  the  lower  lip  bulging  out.  Really  it  was  gro- 
tesque !  Were  they  grown  up,  he  and  she  ?  She  smiled 
almost  self-consciously,  fearing  that  passers-by  might 
notice  his  preposterous  condition.  All  the  way  up  Acre 
Lane  and  across  by  St.  Luke's  Churchyard  into  Traf- 
algar Road  they  walked  thus  side  by  side  in  silence. 
By  strange  good  luck  they  did  not  meet  a  single  ac- 
quaintance, and  as  Edwin  had  a  latchkey,  no  servant 
had  to  come  and  open  the  door  and  behold  them. 

Edwin,  throwing  his  hat  on  the  stand,  ran  imme- 
diately upstairs.  Hilda  passed  idly  into  the  drawing- 
room.  She  was  glad  to  be  in  her  own  drawing-room 
again.  It  was  a  distinguished  apartment,  after 
Clara's.  There  lay  the  Dvorak  music  on  the  piano. 
.  .  .  The  atmosphere  seemed  full  of  ozone.  She  rang 
for  Ada  and  spoke  to  her  with  charming  friendliness 
about  Master  George.  Master  George  had  returned 
from  an  informal  cricket  match  in  the  Manor  Fields, 
and  was  in  the  garden.  Yes,  Ada  had  seen  to  his 
school-clothes.  Everything  was  in  order  for  the  new 
term  shortly  to  commence.  But  Master  George  had 
received  a  blow  from  the  cricket-ball  on  his  shin,  which 
was  black  and  blue.  .  .  .  Had  Ada  done  anything  to 
the  shin?  No,  Master  George  would  not  let  her  touch 
it,  but  she  had  been  allowed  to  see  it.  ...  Very  well, 
Ada.  .  .  .  There  was  something  beatific  about  the 
state  of  being  mistress  of  a  house.  Without  the  mis- 
tress, the  house  would  simply  crumble  to  pieces. 

Hilda  went  upstairs;  she  was  apprehensive,  but  her 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  135 

apprehensiveness  was  agreeable  to  her.  .  .  .  No,  Ed- 
win was  not  in  the  bedroom.  .  .  .  She  could  hear  him 
in  the  bathroom.  She  tried  the  door.  It  was  bolted. 
He  always  bolted  it. 

"Edwin !" 

"What  is  it?" 

He  opened  the  door.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
and  had  just  finished  with  the  towel.  She  entered,  and 
shut  the  door  and  bolted  it.  And  then  she  began 
to  kiss  him.  She  kissed  him  time  after  time,  on  his 
cheek  so  damp  and  fresh. 

"Poor  dear!"  she  murmured. 

She  knew  that  he  could  not  altogether  resist  those 
repeated  kisses.  They  were  more  effective  than  the 
best  arguments  or  the  most  graceful  articulate  sur- 
renders. Thus  she  completed  her  triumph.  But 
whether  the  virtue  of  the  kisses  lay  in  their  sensuous- 
ness  or  in  their  sentiment,  neither  he  nor  she  knew. 
And  she  did  not  care.  .  .  .  She  did  not  kiss  him  with 
abandonment.  There  was  a  reserve  in  her  kisses,  and 
in  her  smile.  Indeed  she  went  on  kissing  him  rather 
sternly.  Her  glance,  when  their  eyes  were  very  close 
together,  was  curious.  It  seemed  to  imply:  "We  are 
in  love.  And  we  love.  I  am  yours.  You  are  mine. 
Life  is  very  fine  after  all.  I  am  a  happy  woman.  But 
still — each  is  for  himself  in  this  world,  and  that's  the 
bedrock  of  marriage  as  of  all  other  institutions."  Her 
sense  of  realities  again !  And  she  went  on  kissing,  irre- 
sistibly. 

"Kiss  me." 

And  he  had  to  kiss  her. 

Whereupon  she  softened  to  him,  and  abandoned  her- 
self to  the  emanations  of  his  charm,  and  her  lips  be- 
came almost  liquid  as  she  kissed  him  again;  neverthe- 
less there  was  still  a  slight  reserve  in  her  kisses. 


136  THESE  TWAIN 

At  tea  she  chattered  like  a  magpie,  as  the  saying  is. 
Between  her  and  George  there  seemed  to  be  a  secret 
instinctive  understanding  that  Edwin  had  to  be  hu- 
moured, enlivened,  drawn  into  talk, — for  although  he 
had  kissed  her,  his  mood  was  yet  by  no  means  restored 
to  the  normal.  He  would  have  liked  to  remain,  majes- 
tic, within  the  tent  of  his  soul.  But  they  were  too 
clever  for  him.  Then,  to  achieve  his  discomfiture,  en- 
tered Johnnie  Orgreave,  with  a  suggestion  that  they 
should  all  four — Edwin,  Hilda,  Janet,  and  himself — 
go  to  the  theatre  at  Hanbridge  that  night.  Hilda  ac- 
cepted the  idea  instantly.  Since  her  marriage,  her 
appetite  for  pleasure  had  developed  enormously.  At 
moments  she  was  positively  greedy  for  pleasure.  She 
was  incapable  of  being  bored  at  the  theatre,  she  would 
sooner  be  in  the  theatre  of  a  night  than  out  of  it. 

"Oh !    Do  let's  go !"  she  cried. 

Edwin  did  not  want  to  go,  but  he  had  to  concur.  He 
did  not  want  to  be  pleasant  to  Johnnie  Orgreave  or  to 
anybody,  but  he  had  to  be  pleasant. 

"Be  on  the  first  car  that  goes  up  after  seven  fifteen," 
said  Johnnie  as  he  was  departing. 

Edwin  grunted. 

"You  understand,  Teddy?  The  first  car  that  goes 
up  after  seven  fifteen." 

"All  right!    All  right!" 

Blithely  Hilda  went  to  beautify  herself.  And  when 
she  had  beautified  herself  and  made  herself  into  a  queen 
of  whom  the  haughtiest  master-printer  might  be  proud, 
she  despatched  Ada  for  Master  George.  And  Master 
George  had  to  come  to  her  bedroom. 

"Let  me  look  at  that  leg,"  she  said.    "Sit  down." 

Devious  creature!  During  tea  she  had  not  even 
divulged  that  she  had  heard  of  the  damaged  shin.  Mas- 
ter George  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  sat  down.  She 


THE  FAMILY  AT  HOME  137 

knelt,  and  herself  unloosed  the  stocking  and  exposed 
the  little  calf.  The  place  was  black  and  blue,  but  it 
had  a  healthy  look. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  said. 

And  then,  all  in  her  splendid  finery,  she  kissed  the 
dirty  discoloured  shin.  Strange!  He  was  only  two 
years  old  and  just  learning  to  talk. 

"Now  then,  missis  !  Here's  the  tram !"  Edwin  yelled 
out  loudly,  roughly,  from  below.  He  would  have  given 
a  sovereign  to  see  her  miss  the  car,  but  his  incon- 
venient sense  of  justice  forced  him  to  warn  her. 

"Coming!     Coming!" 

She  kissed  Master  George  on  the  mouth  eagerly,  and 
George  seemed,  unusually,  to  return  the  eagerness.  She 
ran  down  the  darkening  stairs,  ecstatic. 

In  the  dusky  road,  Edwin  curtly  signalled  to  the  vast 
ascending  steam-car,  and  it  stopped.  Those  were  in 
the  old  days,  when  people  did  what  they  liked  with  the 
cars,  stopping  them  here  and  stopping  them  there  ac- 
cording to  their  fancy.  The  era  of  electricity  and  fixed 
stopping-places,  and  soulless,  conscienceless  control 
from  London  had  not  set  in.  Edwin  and  Hilda 
mounted.  Two  hundred  yards  further  on  the  steam- 
tram  was  once  more  arrested,  and  Johnnie  and  Janet 
joined  them.  Hilda  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  The 
great  affair  of  the  afternoon  had  not  been  a  quarrel, 
but  an  animating  experience  which,  though  dangerous, 
intensified  her  self-confidence  and  her  zest. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   WEEK-END 


THE  events  of  the  portentous  week-end  which  in- 
cluded the  musical  evening  began  early  on  the  Satur- 
day, and  the  first  one  was  a  chance  word  uttered  by 
George. 

Breakfast  was  nearly  over  in  the  Clayhanger  dining- 
room.  Hilda  sat  opposite  to  Edwin,  and  George  be- 
tween them.  They  had  all  eaten  with  appetite,  and  the 
disillusion  which  usually  accompanies  the  satisfaction 
of  desire  was  upon  them.  They  had  looked  forward  to 
breakfast,  scenting  with  zest  its  pleasing  odours,  and 
breakfast  was  over,  save  perhaps  for  a  final  unneces- 
sary piece  of  toast  or  half  a  cup  of  chilled  coffee. 

Hilda  did  not  want  to  move,  because  she  did  not 
care  for  the  Saturday  morning  task  of  shopping  and 
re-victualling  and  being  bland  with  fellow-shoppers  in 
the  emporiums.  The  house-doors  were  too  frequently 
open  on  Saturday  mornings,  and  errand-boys  thereat, 
and  a  wind  blowing  through  the  house,  and  it  was  the 
morning  for  specially  cleaning  the  hall — detestable 
and  damp  operation — and  servants  seemed  loose  on 
Saturday  morning,  and  dinner  was  apt  to  be  late.  But 
Hilda  knew  she  would  have  to  move.  To  postpone  was 
only  to  aggravate.  Destiny  grasped  her  firm.  George 
was  not  keen  about  moving,  because  he  had  no  plan  of 
campaign ;  the  desolating  prospect  of  resuming  school 
on  Monday  had  withered  his  energy;  he  was  in  a -mood 

138 


THE  WEEK-END  139 

to  be  either  a  martyr  or  a  villain.  Edwin  was  lazily 
sardonic,  partly  because  the  leisure  of  breakfast  was 
at  an  end,  partly  because  he  hated  the  wage-paying 
slackness  of  Saturday  morning  at  the  shop,  and  partly 
because  his  relations  with  Hilda  had  remained  indefi- 
nite and  disquieting,  despite  a  thousand  mutual  ur- 
banities and  thoughtful  refinements,  and  even  some 
caresses.  A  sense  of  aimlessness  dejected  him;  and  in 
the  central  caves  of  his  brain  the  question  was  mys- 
teriously stirring:  What  is  the  use  of  all  these  things, 
— success,  dignity,  importance,  luxury,  love,  sensu- 
ality, order,  moral  superiority?  He  foresaw  thirty 
years  of  breakfasts,  with  plenty  of  the  finest  home- 
cured  bacon  and  fresh  eggs,  but  no  romance. 

Before  his  marriage  he  used  to  read  the  paper  hon- 
estly and  rudely  at  breakfast.  That  is  to  say,  he  would 
prop  it  up  squarely  in  front  of  him,  hiding  his  sister 
Maggie,  and  anyhow  ignoring  her ;  and  Maggie  had  to 
"like  it  or  lump  it" ;  she  probably  lumped  it.  But  upon 
marriage  he  had  become  a  chevalier;  he  had  nobly  de- 
cided that  it  was  not  correct  to  put  a  newspaper  be- 
tween yourself  and  a  woman  who  had  denied  you  noth- 
ing. Nevertheless,  his  appetite  for  newspapers  being 
almost  equal  to  his  appetite  for  bacon,  he  would  still 
take  nips  at  the  newspaper  during  breakfast,  hold  it 
in  one  hand,  glance  at  it,  drop  it,  pick  it  up,  talk 
amiably  while  glancing  at  it,  drop  it,  pick  it  up  again. 
So  long  as  the  newspaper  was  held  aside  and  did  not 
touch  the  table,  so  long  as  he  did  not  read  more  than 
ten  lines  at  a  time,  he  considered  that  punctilio  was 
satisfied,  and  that  he  was  not  in  fact  reading  the  news- 
paper at  all.  But  towards  the  end  of  breakfast,  when 
the  last  food  was  disappearing,  and  he  had  lapped  the 
cream  off  the  news,  he  would  hold  the  newspaper  in  both 
hands — and  brazenly  and  conscientiously  read.  His 


140  THESE  TWAIN 

chief  interest,  just  then,  was  political.  Like  most  mem- 
bers of  his  party,  he  was  endeavouring  to  decipher  the 
party  programme  and  not  succeeding,  and  he  feared  for 
his  party  and  was  a  little  ashamed  for  it.  Grave  events 
had  occurred.  The  substructure  of  the  state  was  rock- 
ing. A  newly  elected  supporter  of  the  Government, 
unaware  that  he  was  being  admitted  to  the  best  club 
in  London,  had  gone  to  the  House  of  Commons  in  a 
tweed  cap  and  preceded  by  a  brass-band.  Serious  pil- 
lars of  society  knew  that  the  time  had  come  to  invest 
their  savings  abroad.  Edwin,  with  many  another  ar- 
dent liberal,  was  seeking  to  persuade  himself  that  every- 
thing was  all  right  after  all.  The  domestic  atmosphere 
— Hilda's  baffling  face,  the  emptied  table,  the  shadow 
of  business,  repletion,  early  symptoms  of  indigestion, 
the  sound  of  a  slop-pail  in  the  hall — did  not  aid  him  to 
optimism.  In  brief  the  morning  was  a  fair  specimen 
of  a  kind  of  morning  that  seemed  likely  to  be  for  him 
an  average  morning. 

"Can't  I  leave  the  table,  mother?"  asked  George  dis- 
contentedly. 

Hilda  nodded. 

George  gave  a  coarse  sound  of  glee. 

"George!  .  .  .  That's  so  unlike  you!"  his  mother 
frowned. 

Instead  of  going  directly  towards  the  door,  he  must 
needs  pass  right  round  the  table,  behind  the  chair  of 
his  occupied  uncle.  As  he  did  so,  he  scanned  the  news- 
paper and  read  out  loudly  in  passing  for  the  benefit 
of  the  room : 

"  'Local  Divorce  Case.  Etches  v.  Etches.  Painful 
'details.'  " 

The  words  meant  nothing  to  George.  They  had  hap- 
pened to  catch  his  eye.  He  read  them  as  he  might  have 
read  an  extract  from  the  books  of  Euclid,  and  noisily 


THE  WEEK-END 

and  ostentatiously  departed,  not  without  a  further  pro- 
test from  Hilda. 

And  Edwin  and  Hilda,  left  alone  together,  were  self- 
conscious. 

"Lively  kid!"  murmured  Edwin  self-consciously. 

And  Hilda,  self-consciously: 

"You  never  told  me  that  case  was  on." 

"I  didn't  know  till  I  saw  it  here." 

"What's  the  result?" 

"Not  finished.  .  .  .  Here  you  are,  if  you  want  to 
read  it." 

He  handed  the  sheet  across  the  table.  Despite  his 
serious  interest  in  politics  he  had  read  the  report  be- 
fore anything  else.  Etches  v.  Etches,  indeed,  sur- 
passed Gladstonian  politics  as  an  aid  to  the  dubious 
prosperity  of  the  very  young  morning  newspaper, 
which  represented  the  latest  and  most  original  attempt 
to  challenge  the  journalistic  monopoly  of  the  after- 
noon Staffordshire  Signal.  It  lived  scarcely  longer 
than  the  divorce  case,  for  the  proprietors,  though  Non- 
conformists and  therefore  astute,  had  failed  to  foresee 
that  the  Five  Towns  public  would  not  wait  for  racing 
results  until  the  next  morning. 

"Thanks,"  Hilda  amiably  and  negligently  murmured. 

Edwin  hummed. 

Useless  for  Hilda  to  take  that  casual  tone !  Useless 
for  Edwin  to  hum !  The  unconcealable  thought  in  both 
their  minds  was — and  each  could  divine  the  other's 
thought  and  almost  hear  its  vibration : 

"We  might  end  in  the  divorce  court,  too." 

Hence  their  self-consciousness. 

The  thought  was  absurd,  irrational,  indefensible, 
shocking,  it  had  no  father  and  no  mother,  it  sprang 
out  of  naught ;  but  it  existed,  and  it  had  force  enough 
to  make  them  uncomfortable. 


142  THESE  TWAIN 

The  Etches  couple,  belonging  to  the  great,  numer- 
ous, wealthy,  and  respectable  family  of  Etches,  had 
been  marrried  barely  a  year. 

Edwin  rose  and  glanced  at  his  well-tended  finger- 
nails. The  pleasant  animation  of  his  skin  caused  by 
the  bath  was  still  perceptible.  He  could  feel  it  in  his 
back,  and  it  helped  his  conviction  of  virtue.  He  chose 
a  cigarette  out  of  his  silver  case, — a  good  cigarette,  a 
good  case — and  lit  it,  and  waved  the  match  into  ex- 
tinction, and  puffed  out  much  smoke,  and  regarded 
the  correctness  of  the  crease  in  his  trousers  (the  ver- 
tical trouser-crease  having  recently  been  introduced 
into  the  district  and  insisted  on  by  that  tailor  and 
artist  and  seeker  after  perfection,  Shillitoe),  and 
walked  firmly  to  the  door.  But  the  self-consciousness 
remained. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  door,  his  wife,  gazing  at  the 
newspaper,  stopped  him: 

"Edwin." 

"What's  up?" 

He  did  not  move  from  the  door,  and  she  did  not  look 
up  from  the  newspaper. 

"Seen  your  friend  Big  James  this  morning?" 

Edwin  usually  went  down  to  business  before  break- 
fast, so  that  his  conscience  might  be  free  for  a  leisurely 
meal  at  nine  o'clock.  Big  James  was  the  oldest  em- 
ployee in  the  business.  Originally  he  had  been  fore- 
man compositor,  and  was  still  technically  so  described, 
but  in  fact  he  was  general  manager  and  Edwin's  ma- 
jestic vicegerent  in  all  the  printing-shops.  "Ask  Big 
James,"  was  the  watchword  of  the  whole  organism. 

"No,"  said  Edwin.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing!    It  doesn't  matter." 

Edwin  had  made  certain  resolutions  about  his  tem- 
per, but  it  seemed  to  him  that  such  a  reply  justified 


THE  WEEK-END 

annoyance,  and  he  therefore  permitted  himself  to  be 
annoyed,  failing  to  see  that  serenity  is  a  positive  vir- 
tue only  when  there  is  justification  for  annoyance. 
The  nincompoop  had  not  even  begun  to  perceive  that 
what  is  called  "right-living"  means  the  acceptance  of 
injustice  and  the  excusing  of  the  inexcusable. 

"Now  then,"  he  said,  brusquely.  "Out  with  it."  But 
there  was  still  a  trace  of  rough  tolerance  in  his  voice. 

"No.     It's  all  right.     I  was  wrong  to  mention  it." 

Her  admission  of  sin  did  not  in  the  least  placate 
him. 

He  advanced  towards  the  table. 

"You  haven't  mentioned  it,"  he  said  stiffly. 

Their  eyes  met,  as  Hilda's  quitted  the  newspaper. 
He  could  not  read  hers.  She  seemed  very  calm.  He 
thought  as  he  looked  at  her:  "How  strange  it  is  that 
I  should  be  living  with  this  woman !  What  is  she  to 
me?  What  do  I  know  of  her?" 

She  said  with  tranquillity : 

"If  you  do  see  Big  James  you  might  tell  him  not 
to  trouble  himself  about  that  programme." 

"Programme?  What  programme?"  He  asked, 
startled. 

"Oh!  Edwin!"  She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "The  musi- 
cal evening  programme,  of  course.  Aren't  we  having 
a  musical  evening  to-morrow  night?" 

More  justification  for  annoyance !  Why  should  she 
confuse  the  situation  by  pretending  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten the  musical  evening?  The  pretence  was  idiotic,  de- 
ceiving no  one.  The  musical  evening  was  constantly 
being  mentioned. 

Reports  of  assiduous  practising  had  reached  them; 
and  on  the  previous  night  they  had  had  quite  a  sub- 
dued altercation  over  a  proposal  of  Hilda's  for  alter- 
ing the  furniture  in  the  drawing-room. 


THESE  TWAIN 

"This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  any  programme,"  said 
Edwin.  "Do  you  mean  a  printed  programme?" 

Of  course  she  could  mean  nothing  else.  He  was  ab- 
solutely staggered  at  the  idea  that  she  had  been  down 
to  his  works,  without  a  word  to  him,  and  given  orders 
to  Big  James,  or  even  talked  to  Big  James,  about  a  pro- 
gramme. She  had  no  remorse.  She  had  no  sense  of 
danger.  Had  she  the  slightest  conception  of  what  busi- 
ness was?  Imagine  Maggie  attempting  such  a  thing! 
It  was  simply  not  conceivable.  A  wife  going  to  her 
husband's  works,  and  behind  his  back  giving  or- 
ders  !  It  was  as  though  a  natural  law  had  sus- 
pended its  force. 

"Why,  Edwin,"  she  said  in  extremely  clear,  some- 
what surprised,  and  gently  benevolent  accents.  "What 
ever's  the  matter  with  you?  There  is  a  programme  of 
music,  I  suppose?"  (There  she  was,  ridiculously 
changing  the  meaning  of  the  word  programme !  What 
infantile  tactics!)  "It  occurred  to  me  all  of  a  sudden 
yesterday  afternoon  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  it 
printed  on  gilt-edged  cards,  so  I  ran  down  to  the  shop, 
but  you  weren't  there.  So  I  saw  Big  James." 

"You  never  said  anything  to  me  about  it  last  night. 
Nor  this  morning." 

"Didn't  I?  ...  Well,  I  forgot." 

Grotesque  creature! 

"Well,  what  did  Big  James  say?" 

"Oh !  Don't  ask  me.  But  if  he  treats  all  your  cus- 
tomers as  he  treated  me  ...  However,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter now.  I  shall  write  the  programme  out  myself." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"It  wasn't  what  he  said.  .  .  .  But  he's  very  rude, 
you  know.  Other  people  think  so  too." 

"What  other  people?" 

"Oh !     Never  mind  who !     Of  course,  /  know  how  to 


THE  WEEK-END  145 

take  it.  And  I  know  you  believe  in  him  blindly.  But 
his  airs  are  preposterous.  And  he's  a  dirty  old  man. 
And  I  say,  Edwin,  seeing  how  very  particular  you  are 
about  things  at  home,  you  really  ought  to  see  that  the 
front  shop  is  kept  cleaner.  It's  no  affair  of  mine,  and 
I  never  interfere, — but  really  ...  !" 

Not  a  phrase  of  this  speech  but  what  was  highly  and 
deliberately  provocative.  Assuredly  no  other  person 
had  ever  said  that  Big  James  was  rude.  (But  had 
someone  else  said  so,  after  all?  Suppose,  challenged, 
she  gave  a  name!)  Big  James's  airs  were  not  prepos- 
terous ;  he  was  merely  old  and  dignified.  His  apron  and 
hands  were  dirty,  naturally.  .  .  .  And  then  the  im- 
plication that  Big  James  was  a  fraud,  and  that  he,  Ed- 
win, was  simpleton  enough  to  be  victimised  by  the 
fraud,  while  the  great  all-seeing  Hilda  exposed  it  at  a 
single  glance!  And  the  implication  that  he,  Edwin, 
was  fussy  at  home,  and  negligent  at  the  shop!  And 
the  astounding  assertion  that  she  never  interfered! 

He  smothered  up  all  his  feelings,  with  difficulty,  as 
a  sailor  smothers  up  a  lowered  sail  in  a  high  wind,  and 
merely  demanded,  for  the  third  time: 

"What  did  Big  James  say?" 

"I  was  given  to  understand,"  said  Hilda  roguishly, 
"that  it  was  quite,  quite,  quite  impossible.  But  his 
majesty  would  see!  ...  Well,  he  needn't  'see.'  I  sec 
how  wrong  I  was  to  suggest  it  at  all." 

Edwin  moved  away  in  silence. 

"Are  you  going,  Edwin?"  she  asked  innocently. 

"Yes,"  glumly. 

"You  haven't  kissed  me." 

She  did  not  put  him  to  the  shame  of  returning  to 
her.  No,  she  jumped  up  blithely,  radiant.  Her  make- 
believe  that  nothing  had  happened  was  maddening.  She 
kissed  him  lovingly,  with  a  smile,  more  than  once.  He 


146  THESE  TWAIN 

did  not  kiss ;  he  was  kissed.  Nevertheless  somehow  the 
kissing  modified  his  mental  position  and  he  felt  better 
after  it. 

"Don't  work  yourself  up,  darling,"  she  counselled 
him,  with  kindness  and  concern,  as  he  went  out  of  the 
room.  "You  know  how  sensitive  you  are."  It  was  a 
calculated  insult,  but  an  insult  which  had  to  be  ignored. 
To  notice  it  would  have  been  a  grave  tactical  error. 


n 

When  he  reached  the  shop,  he  sat  down  at  his  old 
desk  in  the  black-stained  cubicle,  and  spied  forth  and 
around  for  the  alleged  dust  which  he  would  tolerate  in 
business  but  would  not  tolerate  at  home.  It  was  there. 
He  could  see  places  that  had  obviously  not  been  touched 
for  weeks,  withdrawn  places  where  the  undisturbed 
mounds  of  stock  and  litter  had  the  eternal  character  of 
Roman  remains  or  vestiges  of  creation.  The  senior 
errand-boy  was  in  the  shop,  snuffling  over  a  blue-paper 
parcel. 

"Boy,"  said  Edwin.  "What  time  do  you  come  here 
in  the  morning?" 

"  'A'  past  seven,  sir." 

"Well,  on  Monday  morning  you'll  be  here  at  seven 
and  you'll  move  everything — there  and  there  and  there 
— and  sweep  and  dust  properly.  This  shop's  like  a 
pigstye.  I  believe  you  never  dust  anything  but  the 
counters." 

He  was  mild  but  firm.  He  knew  himself  for  a  just 
man ;  yet  the  fact  that  he  was  robbing  this  boy  of  half- 
an-hour's  sleep  and  probably  the  boy's  mother  also, 
and  upsetting  the  ancient  order  of  the  boy's  household, 
did  not  trouble  him,  did  not  even  occur  to  him.  For 
him  the  boy  had  no  mother  and  no  household,  but  was  a 


THE  WEEK-END  147 

patent  self-causing  boy  that  came  miraculously  into  ex- 
istence on  the  shop  doorstep  every  morning  and 
achieved  annihilation  thereon  every  night. 

The  boy  was  a  fatalist,  but  his  fatalism  had  limits, 
because  he  well  knew  that  the  demand  for  errand-boys 
was  greater  than  the  supply.  Though  the  limits  of  his 
fatalism  had  not  yet  been  reached,  he  was  scarcely 
pleased. 

"If  I  come  at  seven  who'll  gi'  me  th'  kays,  sir?"  he 
demanded  rather  surlily,  wiping  his  nose  on  his  sleeve. 

"I'll  see  that  you  have  the  keys,"  said  Edwin,  with 
divine  assurance,  though  he  had  not  thought  of  the 
difficulty  of  the  keys. 

The  boy  left  the  shop,  his  body  thrown  out  of  the 
perpendicular  by  the  weight  of  the  blue-paper  parcel. 

"You  ought  to  keep  an  eye  on  this  place,"  said  Ed- 
win quietly  to  the  young  man  who  combined  the  func- 
tion of  clerk  with  .that  of  salesman  to  the  rare  retail 
customers.  "I  can't  see  to  everything.  Here,  check 
these  wages  for  me."  He  indicated  small  piles  of 
money. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk  with  self-respect,  but  ad- 
mitting the  justice  of  the  animadversion. 

Edwin  seldom  had  difficulty  with  his  employees. 
Serious  friction  was  unknown  in  the  establishment. 

He  went  out  by  the  back-entrance,  thinking : 

"It's  no  affair  whatever  of  hers.  Moreover  the  shop's 
as  clean  as  shops  are,  and  a  damned  sight  cleaner  than 
most.  A  shop  isn't  a  drawing-room.  .  .  .  And  now 
there's  the  infernal  programme." 

He  would  have  liked  to  bury  and  forget  the  matter 
of  the  programme.  But  he  could  not.  His  conscience, 
or  her  fussiness,  would  force  him  to  examine  into  it. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Big  James  was  getting  an  old 
man,  with  peculiar  pompous  mannerisms  and  a  disposi- 


148  THESE  TWAIN 

tion  towards  impossibilism.  Big  James  ought  to  have 
remembered,  in  speaking  to  Hilda,  that  he  was  speak- 
ing to  the  wife  of  his  employer.  That  Hilda  should 
give  an  order,  or  even  make  a  request,  direct  was  per- 
haps unusual,  but — dash  it! — you  knew  what  women 
were,  and  if  that  old  josser  of  a  bachelor,  Big  James, 
didn't  know  what  women  were,  so  much  the  worse  for 
him.  He  should  just  give  Big  James  a  hint.  He  could 
not  have  Big  James  making  mischief  between  himself 
and  Hilda. 

But  the  coward  would  not  go  straight  to  Big  James. 
He  went  first  up  to  what  had  come  to  be  called  "the 
litho  room,"  partly  in  order  to  postpone  Big  James, 
but  partly  also  because  he  had  quite  an  affectionate 
proud  interest  in  the  litho  room.  In  Edwin's  childhood 
this  room,  now  stripped  and  soiled  into  a  workshop, 
had  been  the  drawing-room  of  the  Clayhanger  family; 
and  it  still  showed  the  defect  which  it  had  always 
shown;  the  window  was  too  small  and  too  near  the 
corner  of  the  room.  No  transformation  could  render 
it  satisfactory  save  a  change  in  the  window.  Old  Dari- 
us Clayhanger  had  vaguely  talked  of  altering  the  win- 
dow. Edwin  had  thought  seriously  of  it.  But  nothing 
had  been  done.  Edwin  was  continuing  the  very  policy 
of  his  father  which  had  so  roused  his  disdain  when  he 
was  young:  the  policy  of  "making  things  do."  Instead 
of  entering  upon  lithography  in  a  manner  bold,  logical, 
and  decisive,  he  had  nervously  and  half-heartedly 
slithered  into  it.  Thus  at  the  back  of  the  yard  was  a 
second-hand  "Newsom"  machine  in  quarters  too  small 
for  it,  and  the  apparatus  for  the  preliminary  polishing 
of  the  stones;  while  up  here  in  the  ex-drawing-room 
were  grotesquely  mingled  the  final  polishing  process 
and  the  artistic  department. 

The  artist  who  drew  the  designs  on  the  stone  was  a 


THE  WEEK-END  149 

German,  with  short  fair  hair  and  moustache,  a  thick 
neck  and  a  changeless  expression.  Edwin  had  surpris- 
ingly found  him  in  Hanbridge.  He  was  very  skilled  i* 
judging  the  amount  of  "work"  necessary  on  the  stone 
to  produce  a  desired  result  on  the  paper,  and  verj 
laborious.  Without  him  the  nascent  lithographic  trade 
could  not  have  prospered.  His  wages  were  extremelj 
moderate,  but  they  were  what  he  had  asked,  and  in  ex- 
change for  them  he  gave  his  existence.  Edwin  liked 
to  watch  him  drawing,  slavishly,  meticulously,  end- 
lessly. He  was  absolutely  without  imagination,  artistic 
feeling,  charm,  urbanity,  or  elasticity  of  any  sort, — a 
miracle  of  sheer  gruff  positiveness.  He  lived  some- 
where in  Hanbridge,  and  had  once  been  seen  by  Edwin 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  wheeling  a  perambulator  and 
smiling  at  a  young  enceinte  woman  who  held  his  free 
arm.  An  astounding  sight,  which  forced  Edwin  to  ad- 
just his  estimates!  He  grimly  called  himself  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  was  legally  entitled  to  do  so.  On  thii 
morning  he  was  drawing  a  ewer  and  basin,  for  the  illus- 
trated catalogue  of  an  earthenware  manufacturer. 

"Not  a  very  good  light  to-day,"  murmured  Edwin. 

"Eh?" 

"Not  a  very  good  light." 

"No,"  said  Karl  sourly  and  indifferently,  bent  over 
the  stone,  and  breathing  with  calm  regularity.  "My 
eyesight  is  being  de-stroit." 

Behind,  a  young  man  in  a  smock  was  industriouslj 
polishing  a  stone. 

Edwin  beheld  with  pleasure.  It  was  a  joy  to  think 
that  here  was  the  sole  lithography  in  Bursley,  and 
that  his  own  enterprise  had  started  it.  Nevertheless 
he  was  ashamed  too, — ashamed  of  his  hesitations,  his 
half-measures,  his  timidity,  and  of  Karl's  impaired 
eyesight.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not 


150  THESE  TWAIN 

build  a  proper  works,  and  every  reason  why  he  should ; 
the  operation  would  be  remunerative;  it  would  set  an 
example ;  it  would  increase  his  prestige.  He  grew  reso- 
lute. On  the  day  of  the  party  at  the  Benbows'  he  had 
been  and  carefully  inspected  the  plot  of  land  at  Shaw- 
port,  and  yesterday  he  had  made  a  very  low  offer  for 
it.  If  the  offer  was  refused,  he  would  raise  it.  He 
swore  to  himself  he  would  have  his  works. 

Then  Big  James  came  into  the  litho  room. 

"I  was  seeking  ye,  sir,"  said  Big  James  majestically, 
with  a  mysterious  expression. 

Edwin  tried  to  look  at  him  anew,  as  it  were  with 
Hilda's  eyes.  Certainly  his  bigness  amounted  now  to 
an  enormity,  for  proportionately  his  girth  more  than 
matched  his  excessive  height.  His  apron  descended 
from  the  semicircle  of  his  paunch  like  a  vast  grey  wall. 
The  apron  was  dirty,  this  being  Saturday,  but  it  was 
at  any  rate  intact;  in  old  days  Big  James  and  others 
at  critical  moments  of  machining  used  to  tear  strips 
off  their  aprons  for  machine-rags.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was 
conceivably  a  grotesque  figure,  with  his  spectacles, 
which  did  not  suit  him,  his  heavy  breathing,  his  man- 
nerisms, and  his  grandiose  air  of  Atlas  supporting  the 
moral  world.  A  woman  might  be  excused  for  seeing 
the  comic  side  of  him.  But  surely  he  was  honest  and 
loyal.  Surely  he  was  not  the  adder  that  Hilda  with  an 
intonation  had  suggested! 

"I'm  coming,"  said  Edwin,  rather  curtly. 

He  felt  just  in  the  humour  for  putting  Big  James 
"straight."  Still  his  reply  had  not  been  too  curt,  for 
to  his  staff  he  was  the  opposite  of  a  bully;  he  always 
scorned  to  take  a  facile  advantage  of  his  power,  often 
tried  even  to  conceal  his  power  in  the  fiction  that  the 
employee  was  one  man  and  himself  merely  another.  He 
would  be  far  more  devastating  to  his  wife  and  his  sister 


THE  WEEK-END  151 

than  to  any  employee.  But  at  intervals  a  bad  or  care- 
less workman  had  to  meet  the  blaze  of  his  eye  and  ac- 
cept the  lash  of  his  speech. 

"It's  about  that  little  job  for  the  mistress,  sir,"  said 
Big  James  in  a  soft  voice,  when  they  were  out  on  the 
landing. 

Edwin  gave  a  start.  The  ageing  man's  tones  were  so 
eager,  so  anxiously  loyal !  His  emphasis  on  the  word 
'mistress'  conveyed  so  clearly  that  the  mistress  was  a 
high  and  glorious  personage  to  serve  whom  was  an 
honour  and  a  fearful  honour!  The  ageing  man  had 
almost  whispered,  like  a  boy,  glancing  with  jealous  dis- 
trust at  the  shut  door  of  the  room  that  contained  the 
German. 

"Oh !"  muttered  Edwin,  taken  aback. 

"I  set  it  up  myself,"  said  Big  James,  and  holding  his 
head  very  high  looked  down  at  Edwin  under  his  spec- 
tacles. 

"Why!"  said  Edwin  cautiously.  "I  thought  you'd 
given  Mrs.  Clay  hanger  the  idea  it  couldn't  be  done  in 
time." 

"Bless  ye,  sir!  Not  if  I  know  it!  I  intimated  to 
her  the  situation  in  which  we  were  placed,  with  urgent 
jobs  on  hand,  as  in  duty  bound,  sir,  she  being  the  mis- 
tress. Ye  know  how  slow  I  am  to  give  a  promise,  sir. 
But  not  to  do  it — such  was  not  my  intention.  And  as  I 
have  said  already,  sir,  I've  set  it  up  myself,  and  here's 
a  rough  pull." 

He  produced  a  piece  of  paper. 

Edwin's  ancient  affection  for  Big  James  grew  indig- 
nant. The  old  fellow  was  the  very  mirror  of  loyalty. 
He  might  be  somewhat  grotesque  and  mannered  upon 
occasion,  but  he  was  the  soul  of  the  Clayhanger  busi- 
ness. He  had  taught  Edwin  most  of  what  he  knew 
about  both  typesetting  and  machining.  It  seemed  not 


152  THESE  TWAIN 

long  since  that  he  used  to  call  Edwin  "young  sir,"  and 
to  enter  into  tacit  leagues  with  him  against  the  danger- 
ous obstinacies  of  his  decaying  father.  Big  James  had 
genuinely  admired  Darius  Clayhanger.  Assuredly  he 
admired  Darius's  son  not  less.  His  fidelity  to  the 
dynasty  was  touching ;  it  was  wistful.  The  order  from 
the  mistress  had  tremendously  excited  and  flattered 
him  in  his  secret  heart.  .  .  .  And  yet  Hilda  must  call 
him  names,  must  insinuate  against  his  superb  integrity, 
must  grossly  misrepresent  his  attitude  to  herself. 
Whatever  in  his  pompous  old  way  he  might  have  said, 
she  could  not  possibly  have  mistaken  his  anxiety  to 
please  her.  No,  she  had  given  a  false  account  of  their 
interview, — and  Edwin  had  believed  it!  Edwin 
now  swerved  violently  back  to  his  own  original  view. 
He  firmly  believed  Big  James  against  his  wife.  He  re- 
flected: "How  simple  I  was  to  swallow  all  Hilda  said 
without  confirmation !  I  might  have  known !"  And 
that  he  should  think  such  a  thought  shocked  him  tre- 
mendously. 

The  programme  was  not  satisfactorily  set  up.  Apart 
from  several  mistakes  in  the  spelling  of  proper  names, 
the  thing  with  its  fancy  types,  curious  centring,  and 
superabundance  of  full-stops,  resembled  more  the 
libretto  of  a  Primitive  Methodist  Tea-meeting  than  a 
programme  of  classical  music  offered  to  refined  dilet- 
tanti on  a  Sunday  night.  Though  Edwin  had  en- 
deavoured to  modernise  Big  James,  he  had  failed.  It 
was  perhaps  well  that  he  had  failed.  For  the  majority 
of  customers  preferred  Big  James's  taste  in  printing  to 
Edwin's.  He  corrected  the  misspellings  and  removed  a 
few  full-stops,  and  then  said: 

"It's  all  right.  But  I  doubt  if  Mrs.  Clayhanger'll 
care  for  all  these  fancy  founts,"  implying  that  it  was 
a  pity,  of  course,  that  Big  James's  fancy  founts  would 


THE  WEEK-END  153 

not  be  appreciated  at  their  true  value,  but  women  were 
women.  "I  should  almost  be  inclined  to  set  it  all  again 
in  old- face.  I'm  sure  she'd  prefer  it.  Do  you  mind?" 

"With  the  greatest  of  pleasure,  sir,"  Big  James 
heartily  concurred,  looking  at  his  watch.  "But  I  must 
be  lively." 

He  conveyed  his  immense  bulk  neatly  and  impor- 
tantly down  the  narrow  stairs. 

ra 

Edwin  sat  in  his  cubicle  again,  his  affection  for  Big 
James  very  active.  How  simple  and  agreeable  it  was  to 
be  a  man  among  men  only !  The  printing-business  was 
an  organism  fifty  times  as  large  as  the  home,  and  it 
worked  fifty  times  more  smoothly.  No  misunderstand- 
ings, no  secrecies  (at  any  rate  among  the  chief  per- 
sons concerned),  and  a  general  recognition  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  justice !  Even  the  errand-boy  had  understood. 
And  the  shop-clerk  by  his  tone  had  admitted  that  he 
too  was  worthy  of  blame.  The  blame  was  not  over- 
done, and  common-sense  had  closed  the  episode  in  a 
moment.  And  see  with  what  splendid  good-will  Big 
James,  despite  the  intense  conservatism  of  old  age, 
had  accepted  the  wholesale  condemnation  of  his  idea  of 
a  programme!  The  relations  of  men  were  truly  won- 
derful, when  you  come  to  think  about  it.  And  to  be 
at  business  was  a  relief  and  even  a  pleasure.  Edwin 
could  not  remember  having  ever  before  regarded  the 
business  as  a  source  of  pleasure.  A  youth,  he  had 
gone  into  it  greatly  against  his  will,  and  by  tradition 
he  had  supposed  himself  still  to  hate  it. 

Why  had  Hilda  misled  him  as  to  Big  James?  For 
she  had  misled  him.  Yes,  she  had  misled  him.  What 
was  her  motive?  What  did  she  think  she  could  gain 


154  THESE  TWAIN 

by  it?  He  was  still  profoundly  disturbed  by  this  de- 
ception. "Why!"  he  thought,  "I  can't  trust  her!  I 
shall  have  to  be  on  my  guard!  I've  been  in  the  habit 
of  opening  my  mouth  and  swallowing  practically  every- 
thing she  says!"  His  sense  of  justice  very  sharply  re- 
sented her  perfidy  to  Big  James.  His  heart  warmed 
to  the  defence  of  the  excellent  old  man.  What  had  she 
got  against  Big  James?  Since  the  day  when  the  enor- 
mous man  had  first  shown  her  over  the  printing  shops, 
before  their  original  betrothal,  a  decade  and  more  ago, 
he  had  never  treated  her  with  anything  but  an  elaborate 
and  sincere  respect.  Was  she  jealous  of  him,  because 
of  his,  Edwin's,  expressed  confidence  in  and  ancient  re- 
gard for  him,  and  because  Edwin  and  he  had  always 
been  good  companions?  Or  had  she  merely  taken  a 
dislike  to  him, — a  physical  dislike?  Edwin  had  noticed 
that  some  women  had  a  malicious  detestation  for  some 
old  men,  especially  when  the  old  men  had  any  touch  of 
the  grotesque  or  the  pompous.  .  .  .  Well,  he  should 
defend  Big  James  against  her.  She  should  keep  her 
hands  off  Big  James.  His  sense  of  justice  was  so  pow- 
erful in  that  moment  that  if  he  had  had  to  choose  be- 
tween his  wife  and  Big  James  he  would  have  chosen  Big 
James. 

He  came  out  of  the  cubicle  into  the  shop,  and  ar- 
ranged his  countenance  so  that  the  clerk  should  sup- 
pose him  to  be  thinking  in  tremendous  concentration 
upon  some  complex  problem  of  the  business.  And  si- 
multaneously Hilda  passed  up  Duck  Bank  on  the  way 
to  market.  She  passed  so  close  to  the  shop  that  she 
seemed  to  brush  it  like  a  delicious,  exciting,  and  ex- 
asperating menace.  If  she  turned  her  head  she  could 
scarcely  fail  to  see  Edwin  near  the  door  of  the  shop. 
But  she  did  not  turn  her  head.  She  glided  up  the  slope 
steadily  and  implacably.  And  even  in  the  distance  of 


THE  WEEK-END  155 

the  street  her  individuality  showed  itself  mysterious 
and  strong.  He  could  never  decide  whether  she  was 
beautiful  or  not;  he  felt  that  she  was  impressive,  and 
not  to  be  scorned  or  ignored.  Perhaps  she  was  not 
beautiful.  Certainly  she  was  not  young.  She  had  not 
the  insipidity  of  the  young  girl  unfulfilled.  Nor  did 
she  inspire  melancholy  like  the  woman  just  beyond  her 
prime.  The  one  was  going  to  be;  the  other  had  been. 
Hilda  was.  And  she  had  lived.  There  was  in  her  none 
of  the  detestable  ignorance  and  innocence  that,  for  Ed- 
win, spoilt  the  majority  of  women.  She  knew.  She 
was  an  equal,  and  a  dangerous  equal.  Simultaneously 
he  felt  that  he  could  crush  and  kill  the  little  thing,  and 
that  he  must  beware  of  the  powerful,  unscrupulous,  in- 
scrutable individuality.  .  .  .  And  she  receded  still 
higher  up  Duck  Bank  and  then  turned  round  the  cor- 
ner to  the  Market  Place  and  vanished.  And  there  was 
a  void. 

She  would  return.  As  she  had  receded  gradually,  so 
she  would  gradually  approach  the  shop  again  with  her 
delicious,  exciting,  exasperating  menace.  And  he  had 
a  scheme  for  running  out  to  her  and  with  candour  in- 
viting her  in  and  explaining  to  her  in  just  the  right 
tone  of  good-will  that  loyalty  to  herself  simply  hummed 
and  buzzed  in  the  shop  and  the  printing-works,  and 
that  Big  James  worshipped  her,  and  that  though  she 
was  perfect  in  sagacity  she  had  really  been  mistaken 
about  Big  James.  And  he  had  a  vision  of  her  smiling 
kindly  and  frankly  upon  Big  James,  and  Big  James 
twisting  upon  his  own  axis  in  joyous  pride.  Nothing 
but  good-will  and  candour  was  required  to  produce  this 
bliss. 

But  he  knew  that  he  would  never  run  out  to  her  and 
invite  her  to  enter.  The  enterprise  was  perilous  to  the 
point  of  being  foolhardy.  With  a  tone,  with  a  hesita- 


156  THESE  TWAIN 

tion,  with  an  undecipherable  pout,  she  might,  she  would, 
render  it  absurd.  .  .  .  And  then,  his  pride!  ...  At 
that  moment  young  Alec  Batchgrew,  perhaps  then  the 
town's  chief  mooncalf,  came  down  Duck  Bank  in  daz- 
zling breeches  on  a  superb  grey  horse.  And  Edwin 
went  abruptly  back  to  work  lest  the  noodle  should  rein 
in  at  the  shop  door  and  talk  to  him. 

IV 

When  he  returned  home,  a  few  minutes  before  the 
official  hour  of  one  o'clock,  he  heard  women's  voices 
and  laughter  in  the  drawing-room.  And  as  he  stood  in 
the  hall,  fingering  the  thin  little  parcel  of  six  pro- 
grammes which  he  had  brought  with  him,  the  laughter 
overcame  the  voices  and  then  expended  itself  in  shrieks 
of  quite  uncontrolled  mirth.  The  drawing-room  door 
was  half  open.  He  stepped  quietly  to  it.  . 

The  weather,  after  being  thunderous,  had  cleared, 
and  the  part  of  the  drawing-room  near  the  open  win- 
dow was  shot  with  rays  of  sunshine. 

Janet  Orgreave,  all  dressed  in  white,  lay  back  in  an 
easy  chair ;  she  was  laughing  and  wiping  the  tears  from 
her  eyes.  At  the  piano  sat  very  upright  a  seemingly 
rather  pert  young  woman,  not  laughing,  but  smiling, 
with  arch  sparkling  eyes  fixed  on  the  others ;  this  was 
Daisy  Marrion,  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Tom  Orgreave,  and 
the  next  to  the  last  unmarried  daughter  of  a  large 
family  up  at  Hillport.  Standing  by  the  piano  was  a 
young  timid  girl  of  about  sixteen,  whom  Edwin,  who 
had  not  seen  her  before,  guessed  to  be  Janet's  niece, 
Elaine,  eldest  daughter  of  Janet's  elder  sister  in  Lon- 
don; Elaine's  approaching  visit  had  been  announced. 
These  other  two,  like  Janet,  were  in  white.  Lastly 
there  was  Hilda,  in  grey,  with  a  black  hat,  laughing  like 


THE  WEEK-END  157 

a  child.  "They  are  all  children,"  he  thought  as,  un- 
noticed, he  watched  them  in  their  bright  fragile  frocks 
and  hats,  and  in  their  excessive  gaiety,  and  in  the 
strange  abandon  of  their  gestures.  "They  are  a  for- 
eign race  encamped  among  us  men.  Fancy  women  of 
nearly  forty  giggling  with  these  girls  as  Janet  and 
Hilda  are  giggling!"  He  felt  much  pleasure  in  the 
sight.  It  could  not  have  happened  in  poor  old  Mag- 
gie's reign.  It  was  delicious.  It  was  one  of  the  re- 
wards of  existence,  for  the  grace  of  these  creatures  was 
surpassing.  But  at  the  same  time  it  was  hysterical  and 
infantile.  He  thought:  "I've  been  taking  women  too 
seriously."  And  his  heart  lightened  somewhat. 

Elaine  saw  him  first.  A  flush  flowed  from  her 
cheeks  to  her  neck.  Her  body  stiffened.  She  be- 
came intensely  self-conscious.  She  could  not  speak, 
but  she  leaned  forward  and  gazed  with  a  passion  of 
apprehension  at  Janet,  as  if  murmuring:  "Look!  The 
enemy!  Take  care!"  The  imploring  silent  movement 
was  delightful  in  its  gawky  ingenuousness. 

"Do  tell  us  some  more,  Daisy,"  Hilda  implored 
weakly. 

"There  is  no  more,"  said  Daisy,  and  then  started: 
"Oh,  Mr.  Clayhanger!  How  long  have  you  been 
there?" 

He  entered  the  room,  yielding  himself,  proud,  mas- 
culine, acutely  aware  of  his  sudden  effect  on  these  girls. 
For  even  Hilda  was  naught  but  a  girl  at  the  moment; 
and  Janet  was  really  a  girl,  though  the  presence  of  that 
shy  niece,  just  awaking  to  her  own  body  and  to  the 
world,  made  Janet  seem  old  in  spite  of  her  slimness 
and  of  that  smoothness  of  skin  that  was  due  to  a  tran- 
quil, kind  temperament.  The  shy  niece  was  enchant- 
ingly  constrained  upon  being  introduced  to  Edwin, 
whom  she  was  enjoined  to  call  uncle.  Only  yesterday 


158  THESE  TWAIN 

she  must  have  been  a  child.  Her  marvellously  clear 
complexion  could  not  have  been  imitated  by  any  aunt 
or  elder  sister. 

"And  now  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  it's  all  about," 
said  Edwin. 

Hilda  replied: 

"Janet's  called  about  tennis.  It  seems  they're  sick 
of  the  new  Hillport  Club.  I  knew  they  would  be.  And 
so  next  year  Janet's  having  a  private  club  on  her 
lawn 99 

"Bad  as  it  is,"  said  Janet. 

"Where  the  entire  conversation  won't  be  remarks  by 
girls  about  other  girls'  frocks  and  remarks  by  men 
about  the  rotten  inferiority  of  other  men." 

"This  is  all  very  sound,"  said  Edwin,  rather  struck 
by  Hilda's  epigrammatic  quality.  "But  what  I  ask  is 
* — what  were  you  laughing  at?" 

"Oh,  nothing !"  said  Daisy  Marrion. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Edwin,  going  to  the  door  and 
shutting  it.  "Nobody  leaves  this  room  till  I  know. 
.  .  .  Now,  niece  Elaine!" 

Elaine  went  crimson  and  squirmed  on  her  only  re- 
cently hidden  legs,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Tell  him,  Daisy,"  said  Janet. 

Daisy  sat  still  straighter. 

"It  was  only  about  Alec  Batchgrew,  Mr.  Clay- 
hanger;  I  suppose  you  know  him." 

Alec  was  the  youngest  scion  of  the  great  and  detested 
plutocratic  family  of  Batchgrew, — enormously  impor- 
tant in  his  nineteen  years. 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  Edwin.  "I  saw  him  on  his 
new  grey  horse  this  morning." 

"His  'orse,"  Janet  corrected.  They  all  began  to 
laugh  again  loudly. 

"He's  taken  a  terrific  fancy  to  Maud,  my  kiddie  sis- 


THE  WEEK-END  159 

ter,"  said  Daisy.  "She's  sixteen.  Yesterday  after- 
noon at  the  tennis  club  he  said  to  Maud:  'Look  'ere. 
I  shall  ride  through  the  town  to-morrow  morning  on 
my  'orse,  while  you're  all  marketing.  I  shan't  take 
any  notice  of  any  of  the  other  girls,  but  if  you  bow 
to  me  I'll  take  my  'at  off  to  you.'  '  She  imitated  the 
Batchgrew  intonation. 

"That's  a  good  tale,"  said  Edwin  calmly.  "What 
a  cuckoo!  He  ought  to  be  put  in  a  museum." 

Daisy,  made  rather  nervous  by  the  success  of  her 
tale,  bent  over  the  piano,  and  skimmed  pianissimo  and 
rapidly  through  the  "Clytie"  waltz.  Elaine  moved  her 
shoulders  to  the  rhythm. 

Janet  said  they  must  go. 

"Here!  Hold  on  a  bit!"  said  Edwin,  through  the 
light  film  of  music,  and  undoing  the  little  parcel  he 
handed  one  specimen  of  the  programme  to  Hilda  and 
another  to  Janet,  simultaneously. 

"Oh,  so  my  ideas  are  listened  to,  sometimes !"  mur- 
mured Hilda,  who  was,  however,  pleased. 

A  malicious  and  unjust  remark,  he  thought.  But  the 
next  instant  Hilda  said  in  a  quite  friendly  natural 
tone: 

"Janet's  going  to  bring  Elaine.  And  she  says  Tom 
says  she  is  to  tell  you  that  he's  coming  whether  he's 
wanted  or  not.  Daisy  won't  come." 

"Why?"  asked  Edwin,  but  quite  perfunctorily;  he 
knew  that  the  Marrions  were  not  interested  in  interest- 
ing music,  and  his  design  had  been  to  limit  the  audi- 
ence to  enthusiasts. 

"Church,"  answered  Daisy  succinctly. 

"Come  after  church." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"And  how's  the  practising?"  Edwin  enquired  from 
Janet. 


160  THESE  TWAIN 

"Pretty  fair,"  said  she.  "But  not  so  good  as  this 
programme.  What  swells  we  are,  my  word !" 

"Hilda's  idea,"  said  Edwin  generously.  "Your 
mother  coming?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so." 

As  the  visitors  were  leaving,  Hilda  stopped  Janet. 

"Don't  you  think  it'll  be  better  if  we  have  the  piano 
put  over  there,  and  all  the  chairs  together  round  here, 
Janet?" 

"It  might  be,"  said  Janet  uncertainly. 

Hilda  turned  sharply  to  Edwin : 

"There !    What  did  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Well,"  he  protested  good-humouredly,  "what  on 
earth  do  you  expect  her  to  say,  when  you  ask  her  like 
that?  Anyhow  I  may  announce  definitely  that  I'm  not 
going  to  have  the  piano  moved.  We'll  try  things  as 
they  are,  for  a  start,  and  then  see.  Why,  if  you  put  all 
the  chairs  together  over  there,  the  place'll  look  like 
a  blooming  boarding-house." 

The  comparison  was  a  failure  in  tact,  which  he  at 
once  recognised  but  could  not  retrieve.  Hilda  faintly 
reddened,  and  the  memory  of  her  struggles  as  man- 
ageress of  a  boarding-house  was  harshly  revived  in  her. 

"Some  day  I  shall  try  the  piano  over  there,"  she 
said,  low. 

And  Edwin  concurred,  amiably: 

"All  right.  Some  day  we'll  try  it  together,  just  to 
see  what  it  is  like." 

The  girls,  the  younger  ones  still  giggling,  slipped  ele- 
gantly out  of  the  house,  one  after  another. 

Dinner  passed  without  incident. 


The  next  day,  Sunday,  Edwin  had  a  headache;  and 
it  was  a  bilious  headache.     Hence  he  insisted  to  himself 


THE  WEEK-END  161 

and  to  everyone  that  it  was  not  a  bilious  headache,  but 
just  one  of  those  plain  headaches  which  sometimes  visit 
the  righteous  without  cause  or  excuse ;  for  he  would 
never  accept  the  theory  that  he  had  inherited  his  fa- 
ther's digestive  weakness.  A  liability  to  colds  he  would 
admit,  but  not  on  any  account  a  feeble  stomach.  Hence, 
further,  he  was  obliged  to  pretend  to  eat  as  usualv 
George  was  rather  gnat-like  that  morning,  and  Hilda 
was  in  a  susceptible  condition,  doubtless  due  to  nervous- 
ness occasioned  by  the  novel  responsibilities  of  the  mu- 
sical evening — and  a  Sabbath  musical  evening  at  that ! 
After  the  one  o'clock  dinner,  Edwin  lay  down  on  the 
sofa  in  the  dining-room  and  read  and  slept ;  and  when 
he  woke  up  he  felt  better,  and  was  sincerely  almost  per- 
suaded that  his  headache  had  not  been  and  was  not  a 
bilious  headache.  He  said  to  himself  that  a  short  walk 
might  disperse  the  headache  entirely.  He  made  one  or 
two  trifling  adjustments  in  the  disposition  of  the  draw- 
ing-room furniture — his  own  disposition  of  it,  and  im- 
mensely and  indubitably  superior  to  that  so  pertina- 
ciously advocated  by  Hilda — and  then  he  went  out. 
Neither  Hilda  nor  George  was  visible.  Possibly  dur- 
ing his  rest  they  had  gone  for  a  walk ;  they  had  fits  of 
intimacy. 

He  walked  in  the  faint  September  sunshine  down 
Trafalgar  Road  into  the  town.  Except  for  a  few  girls 
in  dowdy  finery  and  a  few  heavy  youths  with  their 
black  or  dark-blue  trousers  turned  up  round  the  ankles 
far  enough  to  show  the  white  cotton  lining,  the  street 
was  empty.  The  devout  at  that  hour  were  either  doz- 
ing at  home  or  engaged  in  Sunday  school  work;  thou- 
sands of  children  were  concentrated  in  the  hot  Sunday 
schools.  As  he  passed  the  Bethesda  Chapel  and  School 
he  heard  the  voices  of  children  addressing  the  Lord  of 
the  Universe  in  laudatory  and  intercessory  song.  Near 


162  THESE  TWAIN 

the  Bethesda  chapel,  by  the  Duke  of  Cambridge  Vaults, 
two  men  stood  waiting,  their  faces  firm  in  the  sure 
knowledge  that  within  three  hours  the  public-houses 
would  again  be  open.  Thick  smoke  rose  from  the 
chimneys  of  several  manufactories  and  thin  smoke  from 
the  chimneys  of  many  others.  The  scheme  of  a  Sunday 
musical  evening  in  that  land  presented  itself  to  Edwin 
as  something  rash,  fantastic,  and  hopeless, — and  yet 
solacing.  Were  it  known  it  could  excite  only  hostility, 
horror,  contempt,  or  an  intense  bovine  indifference; 
chiefly  the  last.  .  .  .  Breathe  the  name  of  Chopin  in 
that  land!  .  .  . 

As  he  climbed  Duck  Bank  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket 
for  his  private  key  of  the  shop,  which  he  had  brought 
with  him ;  for,  not  the  desire  for  fresh  air,  but  an  acute 
curiosity  as  to  the  answer  to  his  letter  to  the  solicitor 
to  the  Hall  trustees  making  an  offer  for  the  land  at 
Shawport,  had  sent  him  out  of  the  house.  Would  the 
offer  be  accepted  or  declined,  or  would  a  somewhat 
higher  sum  be  suggested?  The  reply  would  have  been 
put  into  the  post  on  Saturday,  and  was  doubtless  then 
lying  in  the  letter-box  within  the  shop.  The  whole 
future  seemed  to  be  lying  unopened  in  that  letter-box. 

He  penetrated  into  his  own  shop  like  a  thief,  for  it 
was  not  meet  for  an  important  tradesman  to  be  seen 
dallying  with  business  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  As  he 
went  into  the  shutter-darkened  interior  he  thought  of 
Hilda,  whom  many  years  earlier  he  had  kissed  in  that 
very  same  shutter-darkened  interior  one  Thursday  aft- 
ernoon. Life  appeared  incredible  to  him,  and  in  his 
wife  he  could  see  almost  no  trace  of  the  girl  he  had 
kissed  there  in  the  obscure  shop.  There  was  a  fair 
quantity  of  letters  in  the  box.  The  first  one  he  opened 
was  from  a  solicitor ;  not  the  solicitor  to  the  Hall  trus- 
tees, but  Tom  Orgreave,  who  announced  to  Edwin  Clay- 


THE  WEEK-END  163 

hanger,  Esquire,  dear  sir,  that  his  clients,  the  Palace 
Porcelain  Company  of  Longshaw,  felt  compelled  to  call 
their  creditors  together.  The  Palace  Porcelain  Com- 
pany, who  had  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  printed  ad- 
vertising matter  and  expensive  catalogues,  owed  Edwin 
a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds.  It  was  a  blow,  and  the 
more  so  in  that  it  was  unexpected.  "Did  I  come  mess- 
ing down  here  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to  receive  this 
sort  of  news?"  he  bitterly  asked.  A  moment  earlier 
he  had  not  doubted  the  solvency  of  the  Palace  Porce- 
lain Company;  but  now  he  felt  that  the  Company 
wouldn't  pay  two  shillings  in  the  pound, — perhaps  not 
even  that,  as  there  were  debenture-holders.  The  next 
letter  was  an  acceptance  of  his  offer  for  the  Shawport 
land.  The  die  was  cast,  then.  The  new  works  would 
have  to  be  created ;  lithography  would  increase ;  in  the 
vast  new  enterprise  he  would  be  hampered  by  the  pur- 
chase of  Maggie's  house;  he  had  just  made  a  bad  debt; 
and  he  would  have  Hilda's  capricious  opposition  to  deal 
with.  He  quitted  the  shop  abruptly,  locked  the  door, 
and  went  back  home,  his  mind  very  active  but  undi- 
rected. 

VI 

Something  unfamiliar  in  the  aspect  of  the  breakfast- 
room  as  glimpsed  through  the  open  door  from  the  hall, 
drew  him  within.  Hilda  had  at  last  begun  to  make  it 
into  "her"  room.  She  had  brought  an  old  writing- 
desk  from  upstairs  and  put  it  between  the  fireplace 
and  the  window.  Edwin  thought:  "Doesn't  she  even 
know  the  light  ought  to  fall  over  the  left  shoulder,  not 
over  the  right?"  Letter  paper  and  envelopes  and  even 
stamps  were  visible;  and  a  miscellaneous  mass  of  let- 
ters and  bills  had  been  pushed  into  the  space  between 
the  flat  of  the  desk  and  the  small  drawers  about  it. 


164  THESE  TWAIN 

There  was  also  an  easy-chair,  with  a  freshly-covered 
cushion  on  it ;  a  new  hearthrug  that  Edwin  neither  rec- 
ognised nor  approved  of;  several  framed  prints,  and 
other  oddments.  His  own  portrait  still  dominated  the 
mantelpiece,  but  it  was  now  flanked  by  two  brass  can- 
dle-sticks. He  thought:  "If  she'd  ask  me,  I  could 
have  arranged  it  for  her  much  better  than  that."  Nev- 
ertheless the  idea  of  her  being  absolute  monarch  of  the 
little  room,  and  expressing  her  individuality  in  it  and 
by  it,  both  pleased  and  touched  him.  Nor  did  he  at  all 
resent  the  fact  that  she  had  executed  her  plan  in  se- 
cret. She  must  have  been  anxious  to  get  the  room  fin- 
ished for  the  musical  evening. 

Thence  he  passed  into  the  drawing-room, — and  was 
thunderstruck.  The  arrangement  of  the  furniture  was 
utterly  changed,  and  the  resemblance  to  a  boarding- 
house  parlour  after  all  achieved.  The  piano  had 
crossed  the  room;  the  chairs  were  massed  together  in 
the  most  ridiculous  way;  the  sofa  was  so  placed  as  to 
be  almost  useless.  His  anger  was  furious  but  cold.  The 
woman  had  considerable  taste  in  certain  directions,  but 
she  simply  did  not  understand  the  art  of  fixing  up  a 
room.  Whereas  he  did.  Each  room  in  the  house 
(save  her  poor  little  amateurish  breakfast-room  or 
"boudoir")  had  been  arranged  by  himself,  even  to  small 
details, — and  well  arranged.  Everyone  admitted  that 
he  had  a  talent  for  interiors.  The  house  was  complete 
before  she  ever  saw  it,  and  he  had  been  responsible  for 
it.  He  was  not  the  ordinary  inexperienced  ignorant 
husband  who  "leaves  all  that  sort  of  thing  to  the 
missis."  Interiors  mattered  to  him ;  they  influenced  his 
daily  happiness.  The  woman  had  clearly  failed  to  ap- 
preciate the  sacredness  of  the  status  quo.  He  appre- 
ciated it  himself,  and  never  altered  anything  without 
consulting  her  and  definitely  announcing  his  intention 


THE  WEEK-END  165 

to  alter.  She  probably  didn't  care  a  fig  for  the  status 
quo.  Her  conduct  was  inexcusable.  It  was  an  attack 
on  vital  principles.  It  was  an  outrage.  Doubtless,  in 
her  scorn  for  the  status  quo,  she  imagined  that  he 
would  accept  the  fait  accompli.  She  was  mistaken. 
With  astounding  energy  he  set  to  work  to  restore  the 
status  quo  ante.  The  vigour  with  which  he  dragged 
and  pushed  an  innocent  elephantine  piano  was  mar- 
vellous. In  less  than  five  minutes  not  a  trace  remained 
of  the  fait  accompli.  He  thought:  "This  is  a  queer 
start  for  a  musical  evening!"  But  he  was  triumphant, 
resolute,  and  remorseless.  He  would  show  her  a  thing 
or  two.  In  particular  he  would  show  that  fair  play 
had  to  be  practised  in  his  house.  Then,  perceiving  that 
his  hands  were  dirty,  and  one  finger  bleeding,  he  went 
majestically,  if  somewhat  breathless,  upstairs  to  the 
bathroom,  and  washed  with  care.  In  the  glass  he  saw 
that,  despite  his  exertions,  he  was  pale.  At  length  he 
descended,  wondering  where  she  was,  where  she  had 
hidden  herself,  who  had  helped  her  to  move  the  furni- 
ture, and  what  exactly  the  upshot  would  be.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  high  emo- 
tion, in  which  unflinching  obstinacy  was  shot  through 
with  qualms  about  disaster. 

He  revisited  the  drawing-room  to  survey  his  labours. 
She  was  there.  Whence  she  had  sprung,  he  knew 
not.  But  she  was  there.  He  caught  sight  of  her 
standing  by  the  window  before  entering  the  room. 

When  he  got  into  the  room  he  saw  that  her  emotional 
excitement  far  surpassed  his  own.  Her  lips  and  her 
hands  were  twitching;  her  nostrils  dilated  and  con- 
tracted; tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"Edwin,"  she  exclaimed  very  passionately,  in  a  thick 
voice,  quite  unlike  her  usual  clear  tones,  as  she  sur- 
veyed the  furniture,  "this  is  really  too  much !" 


166  THESE  TWAIN 

Evidently  she  thought  of  nothing  but  her  resent- 
ment. No  consideration  other  than  her  outraged  dig' 
nity  would  have  affected  .her  demeanour.  If  a  whole 
regiment  of  their  friends  had  been  watching  at  the 
door,  her  demeanour  would  not  have  altered.  The  bed- 
rock of  her  nature  had  been  reached. 

"It's  war,  this  is !"  thought  Edwin. 

He  was  afraid ;  he  was  even  intimidated  by  her  anger ; 
but  he  did  not  lose  his  courage.  The  determination  to 
fight  for  himself,  and  to  see  the  thing  through  no  mat- 
ter what  happened,  was  not  a  bit  weakened.  An  in- 
wardly feverish  but  outwardly  calm  vindictive  despera- 
tion possessed  him.  He  and  she  would  soon  know  who 
was  the  stronger. 

At  the  same  time  he  said  to  himself: 

"I  was  hasty.  I  ought  not  to  have  acted  in  such  a 
hurry.  Before  doing  anything  I  ought  to  have  told 
her  quietly  that  I  intended  to  have  the  last  word  as  re- 
gards furniture  in  this  house.  I  was  within  my  rights 
in  acting  at  once,  but  it  wasn't  very  clever  of  me, 
clumsy  fool!" 

Aloud  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  self-conscious  snigger: 

"What's  too  much?" 

Hilda  went  on : 

"You  simply  make  me  look  a  fool  in  my  own  house, 
before  my  own  son  and  the  servants." 

"You've  brought  it  on  yourself,"  said  he  fiercely. 
"If  you  will  do  these  idiotic  things  you  must  take  the 
consequences.  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  the  furniture 
moved,  and  immediately  my  back's  turned  you  go  and 
move  it.  I  won't  have  it,  and  so  I  tell  you  straight." 

"You're  a  brute,"  she  continued,  not  heeding  him, 
obsessed  by  her  own  wound.  "You're  a  brute!"  She 
said  it  with  terrifying  conviction.  "Everybody  knows 
it.  Didn't  Maggie  warn  me?  You're  a  brute  and  a 


THE  WEEK-END  167 

bully.  And  you  do  all  you  can  to  shame  me  in  my 
own  house.  Who'd  think  I  was  supposed  to  be  the  mis- 
tress here?  Even  in  front  of  my  friends  you  insult 
me." 

"Don't  act  like  a  baby.    How  do  I  insult  you?" 

"Talking  about  boarding-houses.  Do  you  think 
Janet  and  all  of  them  didn't  notice  it?" 

"Well,"  he  said.     "Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed,  moving 
towards  the  door. 

He  thought: 

"She's  beaten.    She  knows  she's  got  to  take  it." 

Then  he  said : 

"Do  1  go  altering  furniture  without  consulting  you? 
Do  7  do  things  behind  your  back?  Never!" 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  should  try  to  make  me 
look  a  fool  in  my  own  house.  I  told  Ada  how  I  wanted 
the  furniture,  and  George  and  I  helped  her.  And  then 
a  moment  afterwards  you  give  them  contrary  orders. 
What  will  they  think  of  me?  Naturally  they'll  think 
I'm  not  your  wife,  but  your  slave.  You're  a  brute." 
Her  voice  rose. 

"I  didn't  give  any  orders.  I  haven't  seen  the  damned 
servants  and  I  haven't  seen  George." 

She  looked  up  suddenly : 

"Then  who  moved  the  furniture?" 

"I  did." 

"Who  helped  you?" 

"Nobody  helped  me." 

"But  I  was  here  only  a  minute  or  two  since." 

"Well,  do  you  suppose  it  takes  me  half  a  day  to 
move  a  few  sticks  of  furniture?" 

She  was  impressed  by  his  strength  and  his  swiftness, 
and  apparently  silenced;  she  had  thought  that  the 
servants  had  been  brought  into  the  affair. 


168  THESE  TWAIN 

"You  ought  to  know  perfectly  well,"  he  proceeded, 
"I  should  never  dream  of  insulting  you  before  the 
servants.  Nobody's  more  careful  of  your  dignity  than 
I  am.  I  should  like  to  see  anybody  do  anything  against 
your  dignity  while  I'm  here." 

She  was  still  sobbing. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  apologise  to  me,"  she  blub- 
bered. "Yes,  I  really  do." 

"Why  should  I  apologise  to  you?  You  moved  the 
furniture  against  my  wish.  I  moved  it  against  yours. 
That's  all.  You  began.  I  didn't  begin.  You  want 
everything  your  own  way.  Well,  you  won't  have  it." 

She  blubbered  once  more: 

"You  ought  to  apologise  to  me." 

And  then  she  wept  hysterically. 

He  meditated  sourly,  harshly.  He  had  conquered. 
The  furniture  was  as  he  wished,  and  it  would  remain 
so.  The  enemy  was  in  tears,  shamed,  humiliated.  He 
had  a  desire  to  restore  her  dignity,  partly  because  she 
was  his  wife  and  partly  because  he  hated  to  see  any 
human  being  beaten.  Moreover,  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  had  a  tremendous  regard  for  appearances,  and 
he  felt  fears  for  the  musical  evening.  He  could  not 
contemplate  the  possibility  of  visitors  perceiving  that 
the  host  and  hostess  had  violently  quarrelled.  He 
would  have  sacrificed  almost  anything  to  the  social  pro- 
prieties. And  he  knew  that  Hilda  would  not  think  of 
them,  or  at  any  rate  would  not  think  of  them  effec- 
tively. He  did  not  mind  apologising  to  her,  if  an  apol- 
ogy would  give  her  satisfaction.  He  was  her  superior 
in  moral  force,  and  naught  else  mattered. 

"I  don't  think  I  ought  to  apologise,"  he  said,  with  a 
slight  laugh.  "But  if  you  think  so  I  don't  mind  apolo- 
gising. I  apologise.  There!"  He  dropped  into  an 
easy-chair. 


k  THE  WEEK-END  169 

To  him  it  was  as  if  he  had  said : 

"You  see  what  a  magnanimous  chap  I  am." 

She  tried  to  conceal  her  feelings,  but  she  was  pleased, 
flattered,  astonished.  Her  self-respect  returned  to  her 
rapidly. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  and  added:  "It  was 
the  least  you  could  do." 

At  her  last  words  he  thought: 

"Women  are  incapable  of  being  magnanimous." 

She  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Hilda,"  he  said. 

She  stopped. 

"Come  here,"  he  commanded  with  gentle  bluffness. 

She  wavered  towards  him. 

"Come  here,  I  tell  you,"  he  said  again. 

He  drew  her  down  to  him,  all  fluttering  and  sobbing 
and  wet,  and  kissed  her,  kissed  her  several  times ;  and 
then,  sitting  on  his  knees,  she  kissed  him.  But,  though 
she  mysteriously  signified  forgiveness,  she  could  not 
smile ;  she  was  still  far  too  agitated  and  out  of  control 
to  be  able  to  smile. 

The  scene  was  over.  The  proprieties  of  the  musical 
evening  were  saved.  Her  broken  body  and  soul  huddled 
against  him  were  agreeably  wistful  to  his  triumphant 
manliness. 

But  he  had  had  a  terrible  fright.  And  even  now 
there  was  a  certain  mere  bravado  in  his  attitude.  In 
his  heart  he  was  thinking : 

"By  Jove !    Has  it  come  to  this  ?" 

The  responsibilities  of  the  future  seemed  too  com- 
plicated, wearisome  and  overwhelming.  The  earthly 
career  of  a  bachelor  seemed  almost  heavenly  in  its 
wondrous  freedom.  .  .  .  Etches  v.  Etches.  .  .  .  The 
unexampled  creature,  so  recently  the  source  of  ineffable 
romance,  still  sat  on  his  knees,  weighing  them  down. 


170  THESE  TWAIN 

Suddenly  he  noticed  that  his  head  ached  very  badly — 
worse  than  it  had  ached  all  day. 


vn 


The  Sunday  musical  evening,  beyond  its  artistic 
thrills  and  emotional  quality,  proved  to  be  exciting  as 
a  social  manifestation.  Those  present  at  it  felt  as  must 
feel  Russian  conspirators  in  a  back  room  of  some 
big  grey  house  of  a  Petrograd  suburb  when  the 
secret  printing-press  begins  to  function  before  their 
eyes.  This  concert  of  profane  harmonies,  deliberately 
planned  and  pouring  out  through  open  windows  to 
affront  the  ears  of  returners  from  church  and  chapel, 
was  considered  by  its  organisers  as  a  remarkable  event ; 
and  rightly  so.  The  Clayhanger  house  might  have 
been  a  fortress,  with  the  blood-red  standard  of  art  and 
freedom  floating  from  a  pole  lashed  to  its  chimney.  Of 
course  everybody  pretended  to  everybody  else  that  the 
musical  evening  was  a  quite  ordinary  phenomenon. 

It  was  a  success,  and  a  flashing  success,  yet  not  un- 
qualified. The  performers — Tertius,  Ingpen  on  the 
piano,  on  the  fiddle,  and  on  the  clarinet,  Janet 
Orgreave  on  the  piano,  and  very  timidly  in  a 
little  song  by  Grieg,  Tom  Orgreave  on  the  piano 
and  his  contralto  wife  in  two  famous  and  affect- 
ing songs  by  Schumann  and  also  on  the  piano,  and  Ed- 
win sick  but  obstinate  as  turner-over  of  pages — all  did 
most  creditably.  The  music  was  given  with  ardent 
sympathy,  and  in  none  of  it  did  any  marked  pause 
occur  which  had  not  been  contemplated  by  the  com- 
poser himself.  But  abstentions  had  thinned  the  women 
among  the  audience.  Elaine  Hill  did  not  come,  and, 
far  more  important,  Mrs.  Orgreave  did  not  come.  Her 
husband,  old  Osmond  Orgreave,  had  not  been  expected, 


THE  WEEK-JEND  1713 

as  of  late  (owing  to  the  swift  onset  of  renal  disease, 
hitherto  treated  by  him  with  some  contempt)  he  had 
declined  absolutely  to  go  out  at  night ;  but  Edwin  had 
counted  on  Mrs.  Orgreave.  She  simply  sent  word  that 
she  did  not  care  to  leave  her  husband,  and  that  Elaine 
was  keeping  her  company.  Disappointment,  keen  but 
brief,  resulted.  Edwin's  severe  sick  headache  was  also 
a  drawback.  It  did,  however,  lessen  the  bad  social  ef- 
fect of  an  altercation  between  him  and  Hilda,  in  which 
Edwin's  part  was  attributed  to  his  indisposition.  This 
altercation  arose  out  of  an  irresponsible  suggestion 
from  somebody  that  something  else  should  be  played 
instead  of  something  else.  Now,  for  Edwin,  a  pro- 
gramme was  a  programme, — sacred,  to  be  executed  re- 
gardless of  every  extrinsic  consideration.  And  seeing 
that  the  programme  was  printed  .  .  .  !  Edwin  nega- 
tived the  suggestion  instantly,  and  the  most  weighty 
opinion  in  the  room  agreed  with  him,  but  Hilda  must 
needs  fly  out:  "Why  not  change  it?  I'm  sure  it  will 
be  better,"  etc.  Whereas  she  could  be  sure  of  nothing 
of  the  sort,  and  was  incompetent  to  offer  an  opinion. 
And  she  unreasonably  and  unnecessarily  insisted, 
despite  Tertius  Ingpen,  and  the  change  was  made.  It 
was  astounding  to  Edwin  that,  after  the  shattering 
scene  of  the  afternoon,  she  should  be  so  foolhardy,  so 
careless,  so  obstinate.  But  she  was.  He  kept  his  re- 
sentment neatly  in  a  little  drawer  in  his  mind,  and 
glanced  at  it  now  and  then.  And  he  thought  of  Tertius 
Ingpen's  terrible  remark  about  women  at  Ingpen's  first 
visit.  He  said  to  himself:  "There's  a  lot  in  it,  no 
doubt  about  that." 

At  the  close  of  the  last  item,  two  of  Brahms's  Hun- 
garian Dances  for  pianoforte  duet  (played  with  truly 
electrifying  brio  by  little  wizening  Tom  Orgreave  and 
his  wife),  both  Tertius  Ingpen  and  Tom  fussed  self- 


172  THESE  TWAIN 

consciously  about  the  piano,  triumphant,  not  knowing 
quite  what  to  do  next,  and  each  looking  rather  like  a 
man  who  has  told  a  good  story,  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  applause  tries  to  make  out  by  an  affectation  of 
casualness  that  the  story  is  nothing  at  all. 

"Of  course,"  said  Tom  Orgreave  carelessly,  and 
glancing  at  the  ground  as  he  usually  did  when  speak- 
ing, "Fine  as  those  dances  are  on  the  piano,  I  should 
prefer  to  hear  them  with  the  fiddle." 

"Why?"  demanded  Ingpen  challengingly. 

"Because  they  were  written  for  the  fiddle,"  said  Tom 
Orgreave  with  finality. 

"Written  for  the  fiddle?    Not  a  bit  of  it !" 

With  superiority  outwardly  unruffled,  Tom  said: 

"Pardon  me.  Brahms  wrote  them  for  Joachim.  I've 
heard  him  play  them." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Tertius  Ingpen,  lightly  but  scorn- 
fully. "But  they  were  written  originally  for  piano- 
forte duet,  as  you  played  them  to-night.  Brahms  ar- 
ranged them  afterwards  for  Joachim." 

Tom  Orgreave  shook  under  the  blow,  for  in  musical 
knowledge  his  supremacy  had  never  been  challenged  in 
Bleakridge. 

"Surely !"  he  began  weakly. 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  is  so,"  said  Ingpen  impa- 
tiently. 

"Look  it  up,"  said  Edwin,  with  false  animation,  for 
his  head  was  thudding.  "George,  fetch  the  encyclo- 
paedia B — and  J  too." 

Delighted,  George  ran  off.  He  had  been  examining 
Johnnie  Orgreave's  watch,  and  it  was  to  Johnnie  he 
delivered  the  encyclopaedia,  amid  mock  protests  from 
his  uncle  Edwin.  More  than  one  person  had  remarked 
the  growing  alliance  between  Johnnie  and  young 
George. 


THE  WEEK-END  173 

But  the  encyclopaedia  gave  no  light. 

Then  the  eldest  Swetnam  (who  had  come  by  invita- 
tion at  the  last  moment)  said: 

"I'm  sure  Ingpen  is  right." 

He  was  not  sure,  but  from  the  demeanour  of  the  two 
men  he  could  guess,  and  he  thought  he  might  as  well 
share  the  glory  of  Ingpen's  triumph. 

The  next  instant  Tertius  Ingpen  was  sketching  out 
future  musical  evenings  at  which  quartets  and  quin- 
tets should  be  performed.  He  knew  men  in  the  orches- 
tra at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Hanbridge ;  he  knew  girl-vio- 
linists who  could  be  drilled,  and  he  was  quite  certain 
that  he  could  get  a  'cello.  From  this  he  went  on  to 
part-songs,  and  in  answer  to  scepticism  about  local 
gift  for  music,  he  said  that  during  his  visits  of  inspec- 
tion to  factories  he  had  heard  spontaneous  part-singing 
"that  would  knock  spots  off  the  Savoy  chorus."  In- 
deed, since  his  return  to  it,  Ingpen  had  developed  some 
appreciation  of  certain  aspects  of  his  native  district. 
He  said  that  the  kindly  commonsense  with  which  as  an 
inspector  he  was  received  on  pot-banks,  surpassed  any- 
thing in  the  whole  country. 

"Talking  of  pot-banks,  you'll  get  a  letter  from  me 
about  the  Palace  Porcelain  Company,"  Tom  Orgreave 
lifting  his  eyebrows  muttered  to  Edwin  with  a  strange 
gloomy  constraint. 

"I've  had  it,"  said  Edwin.  "You've  got  some  nice 
clients,  I  must  say." 

In  a  moment,  though  Tom  said  not  a  word  more,  the 
Palace  Porcelain  Company  was  on  the  carpet,  to  Ed- 
win's disgust.  He  hated  to  talk  about  a  misfortune. 
But  others  beside  himself  were  interested  in  the  Palace 
Porcelain  Company,  and  the  news  of  its  failure  had 
boomed  mysteriously  through  the  Sabbath  air  of  the 
district. 


174  THESE  TWAIN 

Hilda  and  Janet  were  whispering  together.  And 
Edwin,  gazing  at  them,  saw  in  them  the  giggling  tennis- 
playing  children  of  the  previous  day, — specimens  of  a 
foreign  race  encamped  among  the  men. 

Suddenly  Hilda  turned  her  head  towards  the  men, 
and  said: 

"Of  course  Edwin's  been  let  in !" 

It  was  a  reference  to  the  Palace  Porcelain  Company. 
How  ungracious!  How  unnecessary!  How  unjust! 
And  somehow  Edwin  had  been  fearing  it.  And  that  was 
really  why  he  had  not  liked  the  turn  of  the  conversa- 
tion,— he  had  been  afraid  of  one  of  her  darts ! 

Useless  for  Tom  Swetnam  to  say  that  a  number  of 
business  men  quite  as  keen  as  Edwin  had  been  "let  in" ! 
From  her  disdainful  silence  it  appeared  that  Hilda's 
conviction  of  the  unusual  simplicity  of  her  husband 
was  impregnable. 

"I  hear  you've  got  that  Shawport  land,"  said  John- 
nie Orgreave. 

The  mystic  influences  of  music  seemed  to  have  been 
overpowered. 

"Who  told  ye?"  asked  Edwin  in  a  low  voice,  once 
more  frightened  of  Hilda. 

"Young  Toby  Hall.  Met  him  at  the  Conservative 
Club  last  night." 

But  Hilda  had  heard. 

"What  land  is  that?"  she  demanded  curtly. 

"  'What  land  is  that?'  "  Johnnie  mimicked  her.  "It's 
the  land  for  the  new  works,  missis." 

Hilda  threw  her  shoulders  back,  glaring  at  Edwin 
with  a  sort  of  outraged  fury.  Happily  most  of  the 
people  present  were  talking  among  themselves. 

"You  never  told  me,"  she  muttered. 

He  said: 

"I  only  knew  this  afternoon." 


THE  WEEK-END  175 

Her  anger  was  unmistakable.  She  was  no  longer  a 
fluttering  feminine  wreck  on  his  manly  knee. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  said  Janet  Orgreave  startlingly 
to  him.  "Sorry  I  have  to  go  so  soon." 

"You  aren't  going !"  Edwin  protested  with  unnatural 
loudness.  "What  about  the  victuals?  I  shan't  touch 
'em  myself.  But  they  must  be  consumed.  Here !  You 
and  I'll  lead  the  way." 

Half  playfully  he  seized  her  arm.  She  glanced  at 
Hilda  uncertainly. 

"Edwin,"  said  Hilda  very  curtly  and  severely,  "don't 
be  so  clumsy.  Janet  has  to  go  at  once.  Mr.  Orgreave 
is  very  ill — very  ill  indeed.  She  only  came  to  oblige 
us."  Then  she  passionately  kissed  Janet. 

It  was  like  a  thunderclap  in  the  room.  Johnnie  and 
Tom  confirmed  the  news.  Of  the  rest  only  Tom's  wife 
and  Hilda  knew.  Janet  had  told  Hilda  before  the  mu- 
sic began.  Osmond  Orgreave  had  been  taken  ill  be- 
tween five  and  six  in  the  afternoon.  Dr.  Stirling  had 
gone  in  at  once,  and  pronounced  the  attack  serious. 
Everything  possible  was  done;  even  a  nurse  was  ob- 
tained instantly,  from  the  Clowes  Hospital  by  the  sta- 
tion. From  reasons  of  sentiment,  if  from  no  other, 
Janet  would  have  stayed  at  home  and  foregone  the 
musical  evening.  But  those  Orgreaves  at  home  had 
put  their  heads  together  and  decided  that  Janet  should 
still  go,  because  without  her  the  entire  musical  evening 
would  crumble  to  naught.  Here  was  the  true  reason 
of  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Orgreave  and  Elaine — both  un- 
necessary to  the  musical  evening.  The  boys  had  come, 
and  Tom's  wife  had  come,  because,  even  considered 
only  as  an  audience,  the  Orgreave  contingent  was  al- 
most essential  to  the  musical  evening.  And  so  Janet, 
her  father's  especial  favourite  and  standby,  had  come, 
and  she  had  played,  and  not  a  word  whispered  except 


176  THESE  TWAIN 

to  Hilda.  It  was  wondrous.  It  was  impressive.  All 
the  Orgreaves  departed,  and  the  remnant  of  guests 
meditated  in  proud,  gratified  silence  upon  the  singular 
fortitude  and  heroic  commonsense  that  distinguished 
their  part  of  the  world.  The  musical  evening  was 
dramatically  over,  the  refreshments  being  almost 
wasted. 

vm 

Hilda  was  climbing  on  to  the  wooden-seated  chair  in 
the  hall  to  put  out  the  light  there  when  she  heard  a 
noise  behind  the  closed  door  of  the  kitchen,  which  she 
had  thought  to  be  empty.  She  went  to  the  door  and 
pushed  it  violently  open.  Not  only  was  the  gas  flaring 
away  in  an  unauthorised  manner,  not  only  were  both 
servants  (theoretically  in  bed)  still  up,  capless  and 
apronless  and  looking  most  curious  in  unrelieved  black, 
but  the  adventurous  and  wicked  George  was  surrepti- 
tiously with  them,  flattering  them  with  his  aristocratic 
companionship,  and  eating  blanc-mange  out  of  a  cut- 
glass  dish  with  a  tablespoon.  Twice  George  had  been 
sent  to  bed.  Once  the  servants  had  been  told  to  go  to 
bed.  The  worst  of  carnivals  is  that  the  dregs  of  the 
population,  such  as  George,  will  take  advantage  of 
them  to  rise  to  the  surface  and,  conscienceless  and  mis- 
chievous, set  at  defiance  the  conventions  by  which  so- 
ciety protects  itself.- 

She  merely  glanced  at  George ;  the  menace  of  her 
eyes  was  alarming.  His  lower  lip  fell ;  he  put  down  the 
dish  and  spoon,  and  slunk  timorously  past  her  on  his 
way  upstairs. 

Then  she  said  to  the  servants: 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves,  encourag- 
ing him!  Go  to  bed  at  once."  And  as  they  began 
nervously  to  handle  the  things  on  the  table,  she  added, 


THE  WEEK-END  177 

more  imperiously:  "At  once!  Don't  keep  me  wait- 
ing. I'll  see  to  all  this." 

And  they  followed  George  meekly. 

She  gazed  in  disgust  at  the  general  litter  of  broken 
refreshments,  symbolising  the  traditional  inefficiency  of 
servants,  and  extinguished  the  gas. 

The  three  criminals  were  somewhat  the  victims  of 
her  secret  resentment  against  Edwin,  who,  a  mere  mar- 
tyrised perambulating  stomach,  had  retired.  Edwin 
had  defeated  her  in  the  afternoon ;  and  all  the  evening, 
in  the  disposition  of  the  furniture,  the  evidence  of  his 
victory  had  confronted  her.  By  prompt  and  brutal  ac- 
tion, uncharacteristic  of  him  and  therefore  mean,  he 
had  defeated  her.  True  he  had  embraced  and  com- 
forted her  tears,  but  it  was  the  kiss  of  a  conqueror. 
And  then,  on  the  top  of  that,  he  had  proved  his  com- 
mercial incompetence  by  making  a  large  bad  debt,  and 
his  commercial  rashness  by  definitely  adopting  a  scheme 
of  whose  extreme  danger  she  was  convinced.  One  part 
of  her  mind  intellectually  knew  that  he  had  not  wil- 
fully synchronised  these  events  in  order  to  wound  her, 
but  another  part  of  her  mind  felt  deeply  that  he  had. 
She  had  been  staggered  by  the  revelation  that  he  was 
definitely  committed  to  the  project  of  lithography  and 
the  new  works.  Not  one  word  about  the  matter  had 
he  said  to  her  since  their  altercation  on  the  night  of  the 
reception;  and  she  had  imagined  that,  with  his  usual 
indecision,  he  was  allowing  it  to  slide.  She  scarcely 
recognised  her  Edwin.  Now  she  accused  him  of  a 
malicious  obstinacy,  not  understanding  that  he  was  in- 
volved in  the  great  machine  of  circumstance  and  per- 
haps almost  as  much  surprised  as  herself  at  the  move- 
ment of  events.  At  any  rate  she  was  being  beaten  once 
more,  and  her  spirit  rebelled.  Through  all  the  misfor- 
tunes previous  to  her  marriage  that  spirit,  if  occa- 


CL78  THESE  TWAIN 

sionally  cowed,  had  never  been  broken.  She  had  sat 
grim  and  fierce  against  even  bum-bailiffs  in  her  time. 
Yes,  her  spirit  rebelled,  and  the  fact  that  others  had 
known  about  the  Shawport  land  before  she  knew  made 
her  still  more  mutinous  against  destiny.  She  looked 
round  dazed  at  the  situation.  What?  The  mild  Ed- 
win defying  and  crushing  her?  It  was  scarcely  con- 
ceivable. The  tension  of  her  nerves  from  this  cause 
only  was  extreme.  Add  to  it  the  strain  of  the  musical 
evening,  intensified  by  the  calamity  at  the  OrgreavesM 

A  bell  rang  in  the  kitchen,  and  all  the  ganglions  of 
her  spinal  column  answered  it.  Had  Edwin  rung?  No. 
It  was  the  front-door. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Tertius  Ingpen,  when  she 
opened.  "But  all  my  friends  soon  learn  how  difficult 
it  is  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  liking  his  tone,  which  flattered 
her  by  assuming  her  sense  of  humour. 

"As  I'm  sleeping  at  the  office  to-night,  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  take  one  or  two  of  my  musical  instru- 
ments after  all.  So  I  came  back." 

"You've  been  round?"  she  asked,  meaning  round  to 
the  Orgreaves*. 

"Yes." 

"What  is  it,  really?" 

"Well,  it  appears  to  be  pericarditis  supervening  on 
renal  disease.  He  lost  consciousness,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.     But  what  is  pericarditis?" 

"Pericarditis  is  inflammation  of  the  pericardium." 

"And  what's  the  pericardium?" 

They  both  smiled  faintly. 

"The  pericardium  is  the  membrane  that  encloses  the 
heart.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I've  only  just 
acquired  this  encyclopaedic  knowledge  from  Stirling, — 
he  was  there." 


THE  WEEK-END  179 

"And  is  it  supposed  to  be  very  dangerous?" 

"I  don't  know.  Doctors  never  want  to  tell  you 
anything  except  what  you  can  find  out  for  your- 
self." 

After  a  little  hesitating  pause  they  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  the  lights  were  still  burning,  and 
the  full  disorder  of  the  musical  evening  persisted,  in- 
cluding the  cigarette-ash  on  the  carpet.  Tertius  Ing- 
pen  picked  up  his  clarinet  case,  took  out  the  instru- 
ment, examined  the  mouthpiece  lovingly,  and  with  ten- 
derness laid  it  back. 

"Do  sit  down  a  moment,"  said  Hilda,  sitting  limply 
down.  "It's  stifling,  isn't  it?" 

"Let  me  open  the  window,"  he  suggested  politely. 

As  he  returned  from  the  window,  he  said,  pulling 
his  short  beard: 

"It  was  wonderful  how  those  Orgreaves  went  through 
the  musical  evening,  wasn't  it?  Makes  you  proud  of 
being  English.  ...  I  suppose  Janet's  a  great  friend 
of  yours?" 

His  enthusiasm  touched  her,  and  her  pride  in  Janet 
quickened  to  it.  She  gave  a  deliberate,  satisfied  nod 
in  reply  to  his  question.  She  was  glad  to  be  alone  with 
him  in  the  silence  of  the  house. 

"Ed  gone  to  bed?"  he  questioned,  after  another  lit- 
tle pause. 

Already  he  was  calling  her  husband  Ed,  and  with  an 
affectionate  intonation ! 

She  nodded  again. 

"He  stuck  it  out  jolly  well,"  said  Ingpen,  still 
standing. 

"He  brings  these  attacks  on  himself,"  said  Hilda, 
with  the  calm  sententiousness  of  a  good  digestion  dis- 
cussing a  bad  one.  She  was  becoming  pleased  with 
herself — with  her  expensive  dress,  her  position,  her 


180  THESE  TWAIN 

philosophy,  and  her  power  to  hold  the  full  attention 
of  this  man. 

Ingpen  replied,  looking  steadily  at  her: 

"We  bring  everything  on  ourselves." 

Then  he  smiled,  as  a  comrade  to  another. 

She  shifted  her  pose.  A  desire  to  discuss  Edwin 
with  this  man  grew  in  her,  for  she  needed  sympathy 
intensely. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  new  scheme  of  his?"  she 
demanded  somewhat  self-consciously. 

"The  new  works?-  Seems  all  right.  But  I  don't 
know  much  about  it." 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  sure."  And  she  exposed  her 
theory  of  the  entire  satisfactoriness  of  their  present 
situation,  of  the  needlessness  of  fresh  risks,  and  of 
Edwin's  unsuitability  for  enterprise.  "Of  course  he's 
splendid,"  she  said.  "But  he'll  never  push.  I  can 
look  at  him  quite  impartially — I  mean  in  all  those 
things." 

Ingpen  murmured  as  it  were  dreamily: 

"Have  you  had  much  experience  of  business  your- 
self?" 

"It  depends  what  you  call  business.  I  suppose  you 
know  I  used  to  keep  a  boarding-house."  She  was  a 
little  defiant. 

"No,  I  didn't  know.  I  may  have  heard  vaguely. 
Did  you  make  it  pay?" 

"It  did  pay  in  the  end." 

"But  not  at  first?  .  .  .  Any  disasters?" 

She  could  not  decide  whether  she  ought  to  rebuff 
the  cross-examiner  or  not.  His  manner  was  so  objec- 
tive, so  disinterested,  so  innocent,  so  disarming,  that 
in  the  end  she  smiled  uncertainly,  raising  her  thick 
eyebrows. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said  bravely. 


THE  WEEK-END  181 

"And  who  came  to  the  rescue?"  Ingpen  proceeded. 

"Edwin  did." 

"I  see,"  said  Ingpen,  still  dreamily. 

"I  believe  you  knew  all  about  it,"  she  remarked,  hav- 
ing flushed. 

"Pardon  me!     Almost  nothing." 

"Of  course  you  take  Edwin's  side." 

"Are  we  talking  man  to  man?"  he  asked  suddenly, 
in  a  new  tone. 

"Most  decidedly !"     She  rose  to  the  challenge. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  my  leading  theory,"  he  said  in  a 
soft,  polite  voice.  "The  proper  place  for  women  is 
the  harem." 

"Mr.  Ingpen!" 

"No,  no !"  he  soothed  her,  but  firmly.  "We're  talk- 
ing man  to  man.  I  can  whisper  sweet  nothings  to  you, 
if  you  prefer  it,  but  I  thought  we  were  trying  to  be 
honest.  I  hold  a  belief.  I  state  it.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  I  hold  that  belief.  You  can  persecute  me  for  my 
belief  if  you  like.  That's  your  affair.  But  surely  you 
aren't  afraid  of  an  idea!  If  you  don't  like  the  mere 
word,  let's  call  it  zenana.  Call  it  the  drawing-room 
and  kitchen." 

"So  we're  to  be  kept  to  our  sphere !" 

"Now  don't  be  resentful.  Naturally  you're  to  be 
kept  to  your  own  sphere.  If  Edwin  began  dancing 
around  in  the  kitchen,  you'd  soon  begin  to  talk  about 
his  sphere.  You  can't  have  the  advantages  of  married 
life  for  nothing — neither  you  nor  he.  But  some  of  you 
women  nowadays  seem  to  expect  them  gratis.  Let 
me  tell  you,  everything  has  to  be  paid  for  on  this 
particular  planet.  I'm  a  bachelor.  I've  often  thought 
about  marrying,  of  course.  I  might  get  married  some 
day.  You  never  know  your  luck.  If  I  do " 

"You'll  keep  your  wife  in  the  harem,  no  doubt !   And 


182  THESE  TWAIN 

she'll  have  to  accept  without  daring  to  say  a  word  all 
the  risks  you  choose  to  take." 

"There  you  are  again!"  he  said.  "This  notion  that 
marriage  ought  to  be  the  end  of  risks  for  a  woman  is 
astonishingly  rife,  I  find.  Very  curious !  Very  curi- 
ous !"  He  seemed  to  address  the  wall.  "Why,  it's  the 
beginning  of  them.  Doesn't  the  husband  take  risks?" 

"He  chooses  his  own.  He  doesn't  have  business 
risks  thrust  upon  him  by  his  wife." 

"Doesn't  he?  What  about  the  risk  of  finding  him- 
self tied  for  life  to  an  inefficient  housekeeper?  That's 
a  bit  of  a  business  risk,  isn't  it?  I've  known  more  than 
one  man  let  in  for  it." 

"And  you've  felt  so  sorry  for  him!" 

"No,  not  specially.  You  must  run  risks.  When 
you've  finished  running  risks  you're  dead  and  you 
ought  to  be  buried.  If  I  was  a  wife  I  should  enjoy 
running  a  risk  with  my  husband.  I  swear  I  shouldn't 
want  to  shut  myself  up  in  a  glass  case  with  him  out  of 
all  the  draughts !  Why,  what  are  we  all  alive  for  ?" 

The  idea  of  the  fineness  of  running  risks  struck  her 
as  original.  It  challenged  her  courage,  and  she  began 
to  meditate. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  "So  you  sleep  at  the  office 
sometimes?" 

"A  certain  elasticity  in  one's  domestic  arrange- 
ments." He  waved  a  hand,  seeming  to  pooh-pooh  him- 
self lightly.  Then,  quickly  changing  his  mood,  he  bent 
and  said  good-night,  but  not  quite  with  the  saccharine 
artificiality  of  his  first  visit — rather  with  honest, 
friendly  sincerity,  in  which  were  mingled  both  thanks 
and  appreciation.  Hilda  jumped  up  responsively. 
And,  the  clarinet-case  under  his  left  arm,  and  the  fid- 
dle-case in  his  left  hand,  leaving  the  right  arm  free, 
Ingpen  departed. 


THE  WEEK-END  183 

She  did  not  immediately  go  to  bed.  Now  that  Ing- 
pen  was  gone  she  perceived  that  though  she  had  really 
said  little  in  opposition  to  Edwin's  scheme,  he  had  at 
once  assumed  that  she  was  a  strong  opponent  of  it. 
Hence  she  must  have  shown  her  feelings  far  too  openly 
at  the  first  mention  of  the  affair  before  anybody  had 
left.  This  annoyed  her.  Also  the  immense  injustice 
of  nearly  all  Ingpen's  argument  grew  upon  her  moment 
by  moment.  She  was  conscious  of  a  grudge  against 
him,  even  while  greatly  liking  him.  But  she  swore  that 
she  would  never  show  the  grudge,  and  that  he  should 
never  suspect  it.  To  the  end  she  would  play  a  man's 
part  in  the  man-to-man  discussion.  Moreover  her  anger 
against  Edwin  had  not  decreased.  Nevertheless,  a  sort 
of  zest,  perhaps  an  angry  joy,  filled  her  with  novel 
and  intoxicating  sensations.  Let  the  scheme  of  the 
new  works  go  forward !  Let  it  fail !  Let  it  ruin  them ! 
She  would  stand  in  the  breach.  She  would  show  the 
whole  world  that  no  ordeal  could  lower  her  head.  She 
had  had  enough  of  being  the  odalisque  and  the  queen, 
reclining  on  the  soft  couch  of  security.  Her  nostrils 
scented  life  on  the  wind.  .  .  .  Then  she  heard  a  door 
close  upstairs,  and  began  at  last  rapidly,  as  it  were 
cruelly,  to  put  out  the  lights. 


The  incubus  and  humiliations  of  a  first-class  bilious 
attack  are  not  eternal.  Edwin  had  not  retired  very 
long  before  the  malignant  phase  of  the  terrible  malady 
passed  inevitably,  by  phenomena  according  with  all 
clinical  experience,  into  the  next  phase.  And  the  pa- 
tient, who  from  being  chiefly  a  stomach,  had  now  be- 
come chiefly  a  throbbing  head,  lay  on  his  pillow 
exhausted  but  once  more  capable  of  objective  thought. 


184  THESE  TWAIN 

His  resentment  against  his  wife  on  account  of  her 
gratuitous  disbelief  in  his  business  faculty,  and  on 
account  of  her  interference  in  a  matter  that  did  not 
concern  her,  flickered  up  into  new  flame.  He  was  abso- 
lutely innocent.  She  was  absolutely  guilty;  no  excuse 
existed  or  could  be  invented  for  her  rude  and  wounding 
attitude.  He  esteemed  Tertius  Ingpen,  bachelor,  the 
most  fortunate  of  men.  .  .  .  Women — unjust,  dishon- 
ourable, unintelligent,  unscrupulous,  giggling,  pleas- 
ure-loving! Their  appetite  for  pleasure  was  infantile 
and  tigerish.  He  had  noticed  it  growing  in  Hilda. 
Previous  to  marriage  he  had  regarded  Hilda  as  com- 
bining the  best  feminine  with  the  best  masculine  quali- 
ties. In  many  ways  she  had  exhibited  the  comforting 
straightforward  characteristics  of  the  male.  But 
since  marriage  her  mental  resemblance  to  a  man  had 
diminished  daily,  and  now  she  was  the  most  feminine 
woman  he  had  ever  met,  in  the  unsatisfactory  sense 
of  the  word.  Women  .  .  .  Still,  the  behaviour  of  Ja- 
net and  Hilda  during  the  musical  evening  had  been 
rather  heroic.  Impossible  to  dismiss  them  as  being 
exclusively  of  the  giggling  race!  They  had  decided  to 
play  a  part,  and  they  had  played  it  with  impressive 
fortitude.  .  .  .  And  the  house  of  the  Orgreaves — was 
it  about  to  fall?  He  divined  that  it  was  about  to  fall. 
No  death  had  so  far  occurred  in  the  family,  which  had 
seemed  to  be  immune  through  decades  and  forever. 
He  wondered  what  would  have  happened  to  the  house 
of  Orgreave  in  six  months'  time.  .  .  .  Then  he  went 
back  into  the  dark  origins  of  his  bilious  attack.  ... 
And  then  he  was  at  inexcusable  Hilda  again. 

At  length  he  heard  her  on  the  landing. 

She  entered  the  bedroom,  and  quickly  he  shut  his 
eyes.  He  felt  unpleasantly  through  his  eyelids  that 
she  had  turned  up  the  gas.  Then  she  was  close  to  him, 


THE  WEEK-END  185 

and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  She  asked  him 
a  question,  calmly,  as  to  occurrences  since  his  retire- 
ment. He  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"Your  forehead's  all  broken  out,"  she  said,  moving 
away. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  aware  of  the  delicious, 
soothing,  heavenly  application  to  his  forehead  of  a 
handkerchief  drenched  in  eau  de  cologne  and  water. 
The  compress  descended  upon  his  forehead  with  the 
infinite  gentleness  of  an  endearment  and  the  sudden 
solace  of  a  reprieve.  He  made  faint,  inarticulate 
noises. 

The  light  was  extinguished  for  his  ease. 

He  murmured  weakly: 

"Are  you  undressed  already?" 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  can  undress  all  right  in 
the  dark." 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  could  dimly  see  her  moving 
darkly  about,  brushing  her  hair,  casting  garments. 
Then  she  came  towards  him,  a  vague  whiteness  against 
the  gloom,  and,  bending,  felt  for  his  face,  and  kissed 
him.  She  kissed  him  with  superb  and  passionate  vio- 
lence; she  drew  his  life  out  of  him,  and  poured  in  her 
own.  The  tremendous  kiss  seemed  to  prove  that  there 
is  no  difference  between  love  and  hate.  It  contained 
everything — surrender,  defiance,  anger  and  tenderness. 

Neither  of  them  spoke.  The  kiss  dominated  and  as- 
suaged him.  Its  illogicalness  overthrew  him.  He  could 
never  have  kissed  like  that  under  such  circumstances. 
It  was  a  high  and  bold  gesture.  It  expressed  and 
transmitted  confidence.  She  had  explained  nothing, 
justified  nothing,  made  no  charge,  asked  no  forgive- 
ness. She  had  just  confronted  him  with  one  unargu- 
able fact.  And  it  was  the  only  fact  that  mattered. 
His  pessimism  about  marriage  lifted.  If  his  spirit 


186  THESE  TWAIN 

was  splendidly  romantic  enough  to  match  hers,  mar- 
riage remained  a  feasible  state.  And  he  threw  away 
logic  and  the  past,  and  in  a  magic  vision  saw  that  suc- 
cess in  marriage  was  an  affair  of  goodwill  and  the 
right  tone.  With  the  whole  force  of  his  heart  he  de- 
termined to  succeed  in  marriage.  And  in  the  mighty 
resolve  marriage  presented  itself  to  him  as  really 
rather  easy  after  all. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    OEGEEAVE    CALAMITY 


ON  the  following  Saturday  afternoon — that  is,  six 
days  later — Edwin  had  unusually  been  down  to  the 
shop  after  dinner,  and  he  returned  home  about  four 
o'clock.  Ada,  hearing  his  entrance,  came  into  the 
hall  and  said: 

"Please,  sir,  missis  is  over  at  Miss  Orgreave's  and 
will  ye  please  go  over?" 

"Where's  Master  George?" 

"In  missis's  own  room,  sir." 

"All  right." 

The  "mistress's  own  room"  was  the  new  nomencla- 
ture adopted  by  the  kitchen,  doubtless  under  sug- 
gestion, for  the  breakfast-room  or  boudoir.  Edwin 
opened  the  door  and  glanced  in.  George,  apparently 
sketching,  sat  at  his  mother's  desk,  with  the  light  fall- 
ing over  his  right  shoulder. 

He  looked  up  quickly  in  self-excuse: 

"Mother  said  I  could!     Mother  said  I  could!" 

For  the  theory  of  the  special  sanctity  of  the  bou- 
doir had  mysteriously  established  itself  in  the 
house  during  the  previous  eight  or  ten  days.  George 
was  well  aware  that  even  Edwin  was  not  entitled  to 
go  in  and  out  as  he  chose. 

"Keep  calm,  sonny,"  said  Edwin,  teasing  him. 

With  permissible  and  discreet  curiosity  he  glanced 
from  afar  at  the  desk,  its  upper  drawers  and  its 

187 


188  THESE  TWAIN 

pigeon-holes.  Obviously  it  was  very  untidy.  Its  unti- 
diness gave  him  sardonic  pleasure,  because  Hilda  was 
ever  implying,  or  even  stating,  that  she  was  a  very 
tidy  woman.  He  remembered  that  many  years  ago 
Janet  had  mentioned  orderliness  as  a  trait  of  the  won- 
derful girl,  Hilda  Lessways.  But  he  did  not  person- 
ally consider  that  she  was  tidy;  assuredly  she  by  no 
means  reached  his  standard  of  tidiness,  which  standard 
indeed  she  now  and  then  dismissed  as  old-maidish. 
Also,  he  was  sardonically  amused  by  the  air  of  im- 
portance and  busyness  which  she  put  on  when  using 
the  desk  and  the  room;  her  household  accounts,  be- 
held at  a  distance,  were  his  wicked  joy.  He  saw  a 
bluish  envelope  lying  untidily  on  the  floor  between  the 
desk  and  the  fireplace,  and  he  picked  it  up.  It  had 
been  addressed  to  "Mrs.  George  Cannon,  59  Preston 
Street,  Brighton,"  and  readdressed  in  a  woman's 
hand  to  "Mrs.  Clayhanger,  Trafalgar  Road,  Burs- 
ley."  Whether  the  handwriting  of  the  original 
address  was  masculine  or  feminine  he  could  not  decide. 
The  envelope  had  probably  contained  only  a  bill  or 
a  circular.  Nevertheless  he  felt  at  once  inimically 
inquisitive  towards  the  envelope.  Without  quite 
knowing  it  he  was  jealous  of  all  Hilda's  past  life  up 
to  her  marriage  with  him.  After  a  moment,  reflect- 
ing that  she  had  made  no  mention  of  a  letter,  he 
dropped  the  envelope  superciliously,  and  it  floated  to 
the  ground. 

"I'm  going  to  Lane  End  House,"  he  said. 

"Can  I  come?" 

"No." 


The  same  overhanging  spirit  of  a  great  event  which 
had  somehow  justified  him  in  being  curt  to  the  boy, 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  189 

rendered  him  self-conscious  and  furtive  as  he  stood  in 
the  porch  of  the  Orgreaves,  waiting  for  the  door  to 
open.  Along  the  drive  that  curved  round  the  oval 
lawn  under  the  high  trees  were  wheel-marks  still  sur- 
viving from  the  previous  day.  The  house  also  sur- 
vived; the  curtains  in  all  the  windows,  and  the  plants 
or  the  pieces  of  furniture  between  the  curtains,  were 
exactly  as  usual.  Yet  the  solid  building  and  its 
contents  had  the  air  of  an  illusion. 

A  servant  appeared. 

"Good   afternoon,    Selina." 

-  He  had  probably  never  before  called  her  by  name, 
but  to-day  his  self-consciousness  impelled  him  to  do  un- 
customary things. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir,"  said  Selina,  whose  change- 
less attire  ignored  even  the  greatest  events.  And  it 
was  as  if  she  had  said : 

"Ah,  sir !     To  what  have  we  come !" 

She  too  was  self-conscious  and  furtive. 

Aloud  she  said: 

"Miss  Orgreave  and  Mrs.  Clayhanger  are  upstairs, 
sir.  I'll  tell  Miss  Orgreave." 

Coughing  nervously,  he  went  into  the  drawing-room, 
the  large  obscure  room,  crowded  with  old  furniture 
and  expensive  new  furniture,  with  books,  knickknacks, 
embroidery,  and  human  history,  in  which  he  had  first 
set  eyes  on  Hilda.  It  was  precisely  the  same  as  it 
had  been  a  few  days  earlier;  absolutely  nothing  had 
been  changed,  and  yet  now  it  had  the  archaeological 
and  forlorn  aspect  of  a  museum. 

He  dreaded  the  appearance  of  Janet  and  Hilda. 
What  could  he  say  to  Janet,  or  she  to  him?  But  he 
was  a  little  comforted  by  the  fact  that  Hilda  had 
left  a  message  for  him  to  join  them. 

On    the    previous    Tuesday   Osmond   Orgreave   had 


190  THESE  TWAIN 

died,  and  within  twenty-four  hours  Mrs.  Orgreave 
was  dead  also.  On  the  Friday  they  were  buried  to- 
gether. To-day  the  blinds  were  up  again ;  the  funereal 
horses  with  their  artificially  curved  necks  had  already 
dragged  other  corpses  to  the  cemetery;  the  town  ex- 
isted as  usual;  and  the  family  of  Orgreave  was  scat- 
tered once  more.  Marian,  the  eldest  daughter,  had 
not  been  able  to  come  at  all,  because  her  husband 
was  seriously  ill.  Alicia  Hesketh,  the  youngest  daugh- 
ter, far  away  in  her  large  house  in  Devonshire,  had 
not  been  able  to  come  at  all,  because  she  was  hourly 
expecting  her  third  child;  nor  would  Harry,  her  hus- 
band, leave  her.  Charlie,  the  doctor  at  Baling,  had 
only  been  able  to  run  down  for  the  funeral,  because, 
his  partner  having  broken  his  leg,  the  whole  work  of 
the  practice  was  on  his  shoulders.  And  to-day  Tom, 
the  solicitor,  was  in  his  office  exploring  the  financial 
side  of  his  father's  affairs;  Johnnie  was  in  the  office 
of  Orgreave  and  Sons,  busy  with  the  professional 
side  of  his  father's  affairs;  Jimmie,  who  had  made  a 
sinister  marriage,  was  nobody  knew  precisely  where; 
Tom's  wife  had  done  what  she  could  and  gone  home; 
Jimmie's  wife  had  never  appeared;  Elaine,  Marian's 
child,  was  shopping  at  Hanbridge  for  Janet;  and 
Janet  remained  among  her  souvenirs.  An  epoch  was 
finished,  and  the  episode  that  concluded  it,  in  its 
strange  features  and  its  swiftness,  resembled  a  vast 
hallucination. 

Certain  funerals  will  obsess  a  whole  town.  And 
the  funeral  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osmond  Orgreave  might 
have  been  expected  to  do  so.  Not  only  had  their 
deaths  been  almost  simultaneous,  but  they  had  been 
preceded  by  superficially  similar  symptoms,  though 
the  husband  had  died  of  pericarditis  following  renal 
disease,  and  the  wife  of  hyperaemia  of  the  lungs  follow- 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  191 

ing;  increasingly  frequent  attacks  of  bronchial  ca- 
tarrh. The  phenomena  had  been  impressive,  and  ru- 
mour had  heightened  them.  Also  Osmond  Orgreave 
for  half  a  century  had  been  an  important  and  cele- 
brated figure  in  the  town;  architecturally  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  new  parts  of  it  were  his  creation.  Yet  the 
funeral  had  not  been  one  of  the  town's  great  feverish 
funerals.  True,  the  children  would  have  opposed  any- 
thing spectacular;  but  had  municipal  opinion  decided 
against  the  children,  they  would  have  been  compelled 
to  yield.  Again  and  again  prominent  men  in  the 
town  had  as  it  were  bought  their  funeral  processions 
in  advance  by  the  yard — processions  in  which  their 
families,  willing  or  not,  were  reduced  to  the  role  of 
stewards. 

Tom  and  Janet,  however,  had  ordained  that  nobody 
whatever  beyond  the  family  should  be  invited  to  the 
funeral,  and  there  had  been  no  sincere  protest  from 
outside. 

The  fact  was  that  Osmond  Orgreave  had  never  re- 
lated himself  to  the  crowd.  He  was  not  a  Freemason; 
he  had  never  been  President  of  the  Society  for  the 
Prosecution  of  Felons;  he  had  never  held  municipal 
office;  he  had  never  pursued  any  object  but  the  good 
of  his  family.  He  was  a  particularist.  His  charm 
was  kept  chiefly  for  his  own  home.  And  beneath  the 
cordiality  of  his  more  general  connections,  there  had 
always  been  a  subtle  reservation — on  both  sides.  He 
was  admired  for  his  cleverness  and  his  distinction, 
liked  where  he  chose  to  be  liked,  but  never  loved  save 
by  his  own  kin.  Further,  he  had  a  name  for  being 
"pretty  sharp"  in  business.  Clients  had  had  pro- 
longed difficulties  with  him — Edwin  himself  among 
them.  The  town  had  made  up  its  mind  about  Osmond 
Orgreave,  and  the  verdict,  as  with  most  popular  ver- 


192  THESE  TWAIN 

(diets,  was  roughly  just  so  far  as  it  went,  but  unjust 
in  its  narrowness.  The  laudatory  three-quarters  of 
a  column  in  the  Signal  and  the  briefer  effusive  no- 
tice in  the  new  half-penny  morning  paper,  both  re- 
flected, for  those  with  perceptions  delicate  enough  to 
understand,  the  popular  verdict.  And  though  Edwin 
hated  long  funerals  and  the  hysteria  of  a  public  woe, 
he  had  nevertheless  a  sense  of  disappointment  in  the 
circumstances  of  the  final  disappearance  of  Osmond 
Orgreave. 

The  two  women  entered  the  room,  silently.  Hilda 
looked  fierce  and  protective.  Janet  Orgreave,  pale 
and  in  black,  seemed  very  thin.  She  did  not  speak. 
She  gave  a  little  nod  of  greeting. 

Edwin,  scarcely  controlling  his  voice  and  his  eyes, 
murmured : 

"Good   afternoon." 

They  would  not  shake  hands;  the  effort  would  have 
broken  them.  All  remained  standing,  uncertainly. 
Edwin  saw  before  him  two  girls  aged  by  the  accumu- 
lation of  experience.  Janet,  though  apparently 
healthy,  with  her  smooth  fair  skin,  was  like  an  old 
woman  in  the  shell  of  a  young  one.  Her  eyes  were 
dulled,  her  glance  plaintive,  her  carriage  slack.  The 
conscious  wish  to  please  had  left  her,  together  with 
her  main  excuse  for  being  alive.  She  was  over  thirty- 
seven,  and  more  and  more  during  the  last  ten  years 
she  had  lived  for  her  parents.  She  alone  among  all 
the  children  had  remained  absolutely  faithful  to  them. 
To  them,  and  to  nobody  else,  she  had  been  essential — a 
fountain  of  vigour  and  brightness  and  kindliness  from 
which  they  drew.  To  see  her  in  the  familiar  and  his- 
toric room  which  she  had  humanised  and  illuminated 
with  her  very  spirit,  was  heartrending.  In  a  day  she 
had  become  unnecessary,  and  shrunk  to  the  unneeded, 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  QL93 

undesired  virgin  which  in  truth  she  was.  She  knew 
it.  Everybody  knew  it.  All  the  waves  of  passionate 
sympathy  which  Hilda  and  Edwin  in  their  different 
ways  ardently  directed  towards  her  broke  in  vain 
upon  that  fact. 

Edwin  thought: 

"And  only  the  other  day  she  was  keen  on  tennis!" 

"Edwin,"  said  Hilda.  "Don't  you  think  she  ought 
to  come  across  to  our  place  for  a  bit?  I'm  sure  it 
would  be  better  for  her  not  to  sleep  here." 

"Most  decidedly,"  Edwin  answered,  only  too  glad 
to  agree  heartily  with  his  wife. 

"But   Johnnie?"   Janet   objected. 

"Pooh !     Surely  he  can  stay  at  Tom's." 

"And  Elaine?" 

"She  can  come  with  you.     Heaps  of  room  for  two." 

"I  couldn't  leave  the  servants  all  alone.  I  reallyr 
couldn't.  They  wouldn't  like  it,"  Janet  persisted.. 
"Moreover,  I've  got  to  give  them  notice." 

Edwin  had  to  make  the  motion  of  swallowing. 

"Well,"  said  Hilda  obstinately.  "Come  along  now 
for  the  evening,  anyhow.  We  shall  be  by  ourselves..'* 

"Yes,  you  must,"  said  Edwin,  curtly. 

"I — I  don't  like  walking  down  the  street,"  Janet 
faltered,  blushing. 

"You  needn't.  You  can  get  over  the  wall,"  said 
Edwin. 

"Of  course  you  can,"  Hilda  concurred.  "Just  as 
you  are  now.  I'll  tell  Selina." 

She  left  the  room  with  decision,  and  the  next  in- 
stant returned  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"Open  it,  please.     I  can't,"  said  Janet. 

Hilda  read : 

"Mother  and  boy  both  doing  splendidly.     Harry.9* 

Janet  dropped  onto  a  chair  and  burst  into  tears. 


194  THESE  TWAIN 

"I'm  so  glad.  I'm  so  glad,"  she  spluttered.  "I  can't 
help  it." 

Then  she  jumped  up,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  smiled. 

For  a  few  yards  the  Clayhanger  and  the  Orgreave 
properties  were  contiguous,  and  separated  by  a  fairly 
new  wall,  which,  after  much  procrastination  on  the 
part  of  owners,  had  at  last  replaced  an  unsatisfactory 
thorn-hedge.  While  Selina  put  a  chair  in  position  for 
the  ladies  to  stand  on  as  a  preliminary  to  climbing 
the  wall,  Edwin  suddenly  remembered  that  in  the  days 
of  the  untidy  thorn-hedge  Janet  had  climbed  a  pair  of 
steps  in  order  to  surmount  the  hedge  and  visit  his 
garden.  He  saw  her  balanced  on  the  steps,  and  smiling 
and  then  jumping,  like  a  child.  Now,  he  preceded  her 
and  Hilda  on  to  the  wall,  and  they  climbed  carefully, 
and  when  they  were  all  up  Selina  handed  him  the  chair 
and  he  dropped  it  on  his  own  side  of  the  wall  so  that 
they  might  descend  more  easily. 

"Be  careful,  Edwin.  Be  careful,"  cried  Hilda, 
neither  pleasantly  nor  unpleasantly. 

And  as  he  tried  to  read  her  mood  in  her  voice,  the 
mysterious  and  changeful  ever-flowing  undercurrent  of 
their  joint  life  bore  rushingly  away  his  sense  of  Janet's 
tragedy;  and  he  knew  that  no  events  exterior  to  his 
marriage  could  ever  overcome  for  long  that  constant 
secret  preoccupation  of  his  concerning  Hilda's  mood. 

in 

When  they  came  into  the  house,  Ada  met  them  with 
zest  and  calamity  in  her  whispering  voice: 

"Please  'm,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benbow  are  here.  They're 
in  the  drawing-room.  They  said  they'd  wait  a  bit  to 
see  if  you  came  back." 

Ada  had  foreseen  that,  whatever  their  superficially 
indifferent  demeanour  as  members  of  the  powerful  rul- 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  195 

ing  caste,  her  master  and  mistress  would  be  struck 
all  of  a  heap  by  this  piece  of  news.  And  they  were. 
For  the  Benbows  did  not  pay  chance  calls;  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  their  lives  every  act  was  neatly  planned 
and  foreordained.  Therefore  this  call  was  formal,  and 
behind  it  was  an  intention. 

"/  can't  see  them.  I  can't  possibly,  dear,"  Janet 
murmured,  as  it  were  intimidated.  "I'll  run  back 
home." 

Hilda  replied  with  benevolent  firmness : 

"No  you  won't.  Come  upstairs  with  me  till  they're 
gone.  Edwin,  you  go  and  see  what  they're  after." 

Janet  faltered  and  obeyed,  and  the  two  women  crept 
swiftly  upstairs.  They  might  have  been  executing  a 
strategic  retirement  from  a  bad  smell.  The  instinct- 
ive movement,  and  the  manner,  were  a  judgment  on 
the  ideals  of  the  Benbows  so  terrible  and  final  that 
even  the  Benbows,  could  they  have  seen  it,  must  have 
winced  and  doubted  for  a  moment  their  own  moral 
perfection.  It  came  to  this,  that  the  stricken  fled  from 
their  presence. 

"  'What  they're  after' !"  Edwin  muttered  to  himself, 
half  resenting  the  phrase ;  because  Clara  was  his  sis- 
ter; and  though  she  bored  and  exasperated  him,  he 
could  not  class  her  with  exactly  similar  boring  and 
exasperating  women. 

And,  throwing  down  his  cap,  he  went  with  false 
casual  welcoming  into  the  drawing-room. 

Young  Bert  Benbow,  prodigiously  solemn  and  un- 
comfortable in  his  birthday  spectacles,  was  with  his 
father  and  mother.  Immense  satisfaction,  tempered 
by  a  slight  nervousness,  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
parents.  And  the  demeanour  of  all  three  showed  in- 
stantly that  the  occasion  was  ceremonious.  Albert  and 
Clara  could  not  have  been  more  pleased  and  uplifted 


196  THESE  TWAIN 

had  the  occasion  been  a  mourning  visit  of  commiser- 
ation or  even  a  funeral. 

The  washed  and  brushed  schoolboy,  preoccupied, 
did  not  take  his  share  in  the  greetings  with  sufficient 
spontaneity  and  promptitude. 

Clara  said,  gently  shocked: 

"Bert,  what  do  you  say  to  your  uncle?" 

"Good  afternoon,  uncle." 

"I  should  think  so  indeed!" 

Clara  of  course  sprang  at  once  to  the  luscious  first 
topic,  as  to  a  fruit: 

"How  is  poor  Janet  bearing  up?" 

Edwin  was  very  characteristically  of  the  Five  Towns 
in  this, — he  hated  to  admit,  in  the  crisis  itself,  that 
anything  unusual  was  happening  or  had  just  hap- 
pened. Thus  he  replied  negligently: 

"Oh!    All  right!" 

As  though  his  opinion  was  that  Janet  had  nothing 
to  bear  up  against. 

"I  hear  it  was  a  very  quiet  funeral,"  said  Clara, 
suggesting  somehow  that  there  must  be  something  sin- 
ister behind  the  quietness  of  the  funeral. 

"Yes,"  said  Edwin. 

"Didn't  they  ask  you?" 

"No." 

"Well— my  word!" 

There  was  a  silence,  save  for  faint  humming  from 
Albert.  And  then,  just  as  Clara  was  mentioning  her 
name,  in  rushed  Hilda. 

"What's  the  matter?"  the  impulsive  Hilda  demanded 
bluntly. 

This  gambit  did  not  please  Edwin,  whose  instinct 
was  always  to  pretend  that  nothing  was  the  matter. 
He  would  have  maintained  as  long  as  anybody  that 
the  call  was  a  chance  call. 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  197 

After  a  few  vague  exchanges,  Clara  coughed  and 
said: 

"It's  really  about  your  George  and  our  Bert.  .  .  . 
Haven't  you  heard?  .  .  .  Hasn't  George  said  any- 
thing?" 

"No.    .    .    .   What?" 

Clara  looked  at  her  husband  expectantly,  and  Al- 
bert took  the  grand  male  role. 

"I  gather  they  had  a  fight  yesterday  at  school," 
said  he. 

The  two  boys  went  to  the  same  school,  the  new- 
fangled Higher  Grade  School  at  Hanbridge,  which 
had  dealt  such  a  blow  at  the  ancient  educational  foun- 
dations at  Oldcastle.  That  their  Bert  should  attend 
the  same  school  as  George  was  secretly  a  matter  of 
pride  to  the  Benbows. 

"Oh,"  said  Edwin.  "We've  seen  no  gaping  wounds, 
have  we,  Hilda?" 

Albert's  face  did  not  relax. 

"You've  only  got  to  look  at  Bert's  chin,"  said  Clara. 

Bert  shuffled  under  the  world's  sudden  gaze.  Un- 
deniably there  was  a  small  discoloured  lump  on  his 
chin. 

"I've  had  it  out  with  Bert,"  Albert  continued  se- 
verely. "I  don't  know  who  was  in  the  wrong — it  was 
about  that  penknife  business,  you  know — but  I'm 
quite  sure  that  Bert  was  not  in  the  right.  And  as  he's 
the  older  we've  decided  that  he  must  ask  George's 
forgiveness." 

"Yes,"  eagerly  added  Clara,  tired  of  listening. 
"Albert  says  we  can't  have  quarrels  going  on  like 
this  in  the  family — they  haven't  spoken  friendly  to 
each  other  since  that  night  we  were  here — and  it's  the 
manly  thing  for  Bert  to  ask  George's  forgiveness,  and 
then  they  can  shake  hands." 


198  THESE  TWAIN 

"That's  what  I  say."  Albert  massively  corrobo- 
rated her. 

Edwin  thought: 

"I  suppose  these  people  imagine  they're  doing  some- 
thing rather  fine."  * 

Whatever  they  imagined  they  were  doing,  they 
had  made  both  Edwin  and  Hilda  sheepish.  Either  of 
them  would  have  sacrificed  a  vast  fortune  and  the 
lives  of  thousands  of  Sunday  school  officers  in  order 
to  find  a  dignified  way  of  ridiculing  and  crushing  the 
expedition  of  Albert  and  Clara;  but  they  could  think 
of  naught  that  was  effective. 

Hilda  asked,  somewhat  curtly,  but  lamely: 

"Where  is  George?" 

"He  was  in  your  boudoir  a  two-three  minutes  ago, 
drawing,"  said  Edwin. 

Clara's  neck  was  elongated  at  the  sound  of  the  word 
"boudoir." 

"Boudoir?"  said  she.  And  Edwin  could  in  fancy 
hear  her  going  down  Trafalgar  Road  and  giggling  at 
every  house-door:  "Did  ye  know  Mrs.  Clayhanger 
has  a  boudoir?  That's  the  latest."  Still  he  had  em- 
ployed the  word  with  intention,  out  of  deliberate  bra- 
vado. 

"Breakfast-room,"  he  added,  explanatory. 

"I  should  suggest,"  said  Albert,  "That  Bert  goes 
to  him  in  the  breakfast-room.  They'll  settle  it  much 
better  by  themselves."  He  was  very  pleased  by  this 
last  phrase,  which  proved  him  a  man  of ,  the  world 
after  all. 

"So  long  as  they  don't  smash  too  much  furniture 
while  they're  about  it,"  murmured  Edwin. 

"Now,  Bert,  my  boy,"  said  Albert,  in  the  tone  of  a 
father  who  is  also  a  brother. 

And,  as  Hilda  was  inactive,  Bert  stalked  forth  upon 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  199 

his  mission  of  manliness,  smiling  awkwardly  and  blush- 
ing. He  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  not  one  of  the 
adults  dared  to  rise  and  open  it. 

"Had  any  luck  with  missing  words  lately?"  Albert 
asked,  in  a  detached  airy  manner,  showing  that  the 
Bert-George  affair  was  a  trifle  to  him,  to  be  dismissed 
from  the  mind  at  will. 

"No,"  said  Edwin.  "I've  been  off  missing  words 
lately." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  Clara  agreed  with  gravity. 
"All  this  must  have  been  very  trying  to  you  all.  .  .  . 
Albert's  done  very  well  of  course." 

"I  was  on  'politeness,'  my  boy,"  said  Albert. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  Clara  expressed  surprise. 

"'Politeness'?" 

"Sixty-four  pounds  nineteen  shillings  per  share," 
said  Albert  tremendously. 

Edwin  appreciatively  whistled. 

"Had  the  money?"   " 

"No.  Cheques  go  out  on  Monday,  I  believe.  Of 
course,"  he  added,  "I  go  in  for  it  scientifically.  I 
leave  no  chances,  I  don't.  I'm  making  a  capital  out- 
lay of  over  five  pounds  ten  on  next  week's  competition, 
and  I  may  tell  you  I  shall  get  it  back  again,  with  in- 
terest." 

At  the  same  moment,  Bert  re-entered  the  room. 

"He's  not  there,"  said  Bert.  "His  drawing's  there, 
but  he  isn't." 

This  news  was  adverse  to  the  cause  of  manly  peace. 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Clara,  implying  that  Bert 
might  not  have  made  a  thorough  search  for  George  in 
the  boudoir. 

Hilda  sat  grim  and  silent. 

"He  may  be  upstairs,"  said  the  weakly  amiable  Ed- 
win. 


200  THESE  TWAIN 

Hilda  rang  the  bell  with  cold  anger. 

"Is  Master  George  in  the  house?"  she  harshly  ques- 
tioned Ada. 

"No'm.    He  went  out  a  bit  since." 

The  fact  was  that  George,  on  hearing  from  the 
faithful  Ada  of  the  arrival  of  the  Benbows,  had  re- 
tired through  the  kitchen  and  through  the  back-door, 
into  the  mountainous  country  towards  Bleakridge 
railway-station,  where  kite-flying  was  practised  on  im- 
mense cinder-heaps. 

"Ah!  Well,"  said  Albert,  undefeated,  to  Edwin. 
"You  might  tell  him  Bert's  been  up  specially  to  apolo- 
gise to  him.  Oh!  And  here's  that  penknife!"  He 
looked  now  at  Hilda,  and,  producing  Tertius  Ingpen's 
knife,  he  put  it  with  a  flourish  on  the  mantelpiece.  "I 
prefer  it  to  be  on  your  mantelpiece  than  on  ours,"  he 
added,  smiling  rather  grandiosely.  His  manner  as  a 
whole,  though  compound,  indicated  with  some  clearness 
that  while  he  adhered  to  his  belief  in  the  efficacy  of 
prayer,  he  could  not  allow  his  son  to  accept  from 
George  earthly  penknives  alleged  to  have  descended 
from  heaven.  It  was  a  triumphant  hour  for  Albert 
Benbow,  as  he  stood  there  dominating  the  drawing- 
room.  He  perceived  that,  in  addition  to  silencing  and 
sneaping  the  elder  and  richer  branch  of  the  family,  he 
was  cutting  a  majestic  figure  in  the  eyes  of  his  own 
son. 

In  an  awful  interval,  Clara  said  with  a  sweet  bright 
smile : 

"By  the  way,  Albert,  don't  forget  about  what 
Maggie  asked  you  to  ask." 

"Oh,  yes !  By  the  way,"  said  Albert,  "Maggie  wants 
to  know  how  soon  you  can  complete  the  purchase  of 
this  house  of  yours." 

Edwin  moved  uneasily. 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  301 

"I  don't  know,"  he  mumbled. 

"Can  you  stump  up  in  a  month?  Say  the  end  of 
October  anyway,  at  latest."  Albert  persisted,  and 
grew  caustic.  "You've  only  got  to  sell  a  few  of  your 
famous  securities." 

"Certainly.  Before  the  end  of  October,"  Hilda  re- 
plied, with  impulsive  and  fierce  assurance. 

Edwin  was  amazed  by  this  interference  on  her  part. 
Was  she  incapable  of  learning  from  experience?  Let 
him  employ  the  right  tone  with  absolutely  perfect  skill, 
marriage  would  still  be  impossible  if  she  meant  to  carry 
on  in  this  way!  What  did  she  know  about  the  diffi- 
culties of  completing  the  purchase?  What  right  had 
she  to  put  in  a  word  apparently  so  decisive?  Such 
behaviour  was  unheard  of.  She  must  be  mad.  Never- 
theless he  did  not  yield  to  anger.  He  merely  said 
feebly  and  querulously: 

"That's  all  very  well!  That's  all  very  well!  But 
I'm  not  quite  so  sure  as  all  that.  Will  she  let  some 
of  it  be  on  mortgage?" 

"No,  she  won't,"  said  Albert. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I've  got  a  new  security  for  the  whole 
amount  myself." 

"Oh!" 

Edwin  glanced  at  his  wife  and  his  resentful  eyes 
said:  "There  you  are!  All  through  your  infernal 
hurry  and  cheek  Maggie's  going  to  lose  eighteen  hun- 
dred pounds  in  a  rotten  investment.  I  told  you  Al- 
bert would  get  hold  of  that  money  if  he  heard  of  it. 
And  just  look!" 

At  this  point  Albert,  who  knew  fairly  well  how  to 
draw  an  advantage  from  his  brother-in-law's  charac- 
teristic weaknesses,  perceived  suddenly  the  value  of  an 
immediate  departure.  And  amid  loud  enquiries  of  all 


202  THESE  TWAIN 

sorts  from  Clara,  and  magnificent  generalities  from 
Albert,  and  gloomy,  stiff  salutations  from  uncomfort- 
able Bert,  the  visit  closed. 

JBut  destiny  lay  in  wait  at  the  corner  of  the  street 
for  Albert  Benbow's  pride.  Precisely  as  the  Ben- 
bows  were  issuing  from  the  portico,  the  front-door 
being  already  closed  upon  them,  the  second  Swetnam 
son  came  swinging  down  Trafalgar  Road.  He  stopped, 
raising  his  hat. 

"Hallo,  Mr.  Benbow,"  he  said.  "You've  heard 
the  news,  I  suppose?" 

"What  about?" 

"Missing  word  competitions." 

It  is  a  fact  that  Albert  paled. 

"What?" 

"Injunction  in  the  High  Court  this  morning.  All 
the  money's  impounded,  pending  a  hearing  as  to 
whether  the  competitions  are  illegal  or  not.  At  the 
very  least  half  of  it  will  go  in  costs.  It's  all  over  with 
missing  words." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"I've  had  a  wire  to  stop  me  from  sending  in  for 
next  week's." 

Albert  Benbow  gave  an  oath.  His  wife  ought  surely 
to  have  been  horrorstruck  by  the  word;  but  she  did 
not  blench.  Flushing  and  scowling  she  said: 

"What  a  shame!    We've  sent  ours  in." 

The  faithful  creature  had  for  days  past  at  odd 
moments  been  assisting  her  husband  in  the  dictionary 
and  as  a  clerk.  .  .  .  And  lo!  at  last,  confirmation  of 
those  absurd  but  persistent  rumours  to  the  effect  that 
certain  busybodies  meant  if  they  could  to  stop  missing 
word  competitions  on  the  ground  that  they  were 
simply  a  crude  appeal  to  the  famous  "gambling  in- 
stincts" of  mankind  and  especially  of  Englishmen! 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  203 

Albert  had  rebutted  the  charge  with  virtuous  warmth, 
insisting  on  the  skill  involved  in  word-choosing,  and 
insisting  also  on  the  historical  freedom  of  the  institu- 
tions of  his  country.  He  maintained  that  it  was  in- 
conceivable that  any  English  court  of  justice  should 
ever  interfere  with  a  pastime  so  innocent  and  so  tonic 
for  the  tired  brain.  And  though  he  had  had  secret 
fears,  and  had  been  disturbed  and  even  hurt  by  the 
comments  of  a  religious  paper  to  which  he  subscribed, 
he  would  not  waver  from  his  courageous  and  sensible 
English  attitude.  Now  the  fearful  blow  had  fallen, 
and  Albert  knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  heaven's  pun- 
ishment for  him.  He  turned  to  shut  the  gate  after 
him,  and  noticed  Bert.  It  appeared  to  him  that  in 
hearing  the  paternal  oath,  Bert  had  been  guilty  of  a 
crime,  or  at  least  an  indiscretion,  and  he  at  once  began 
to  make  Bert  suffer. 

Meanwhile  Swetnam  had  gone  on,  to  spread  the  tale 
which  was  to  bring  indignation  and  affliction  into  tens 
of  thousands  of  respectable  homes. 


IT 

Janet  came  softly  and  timidly  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"They  are  gone?"  she  questioned.  "I  thought  I 
heard  the  front-door." 

"Yes,  thank  goodness !"  Hilda  exclaimed  candidly, 
disdaining  the  convention  (which  Edwin  still  had  in 
respect)  that  a  weakness  in  family  ties  should  never 
be  referred  to,  beyond  the  confines  of  the  family,  save 
in  urbane  terms  of  dignity  and  regret  excusing  so  far 
as  possible  the  sinner.  But  in  this  instance  the  im- 
mense ineptitude  of  the  Benbows  had  so  affected  Ed- 
win that,  while  objecting  to  his  wife's  outbreak,  he 


204  THESE  TWAIN 

could  not  help  giving  a  guffaw  which  supported  it. 
And  all  the  time  he  kept  thinking  to  himself: 

"Imagine  that  d d  pietistic  rascal  dragging  the 

miserable  shrimp  up  here  to  apologise  to  George!" 

He  was  ashamed,  not  merely  of  his  relatives,  but 
somehow  of  all  humanity.  He  could  scarcely  look  even 
a  chair  in  the  face.  The  Benbows  had  left  behind 
them  desolation,  and  this  desolation  affected  every- 
thing, and  could  be  tasted  on  the  tongue.  Janet  of 
course  instantly  noticed  it,  and  felt  that  she  ought  not 
to  witness  the  shaming  of  her  friends.  Moreover,  her 
existence  now  was  chiefly  an  apology  for  itself. 

She  said: 

"I  really  think  I  ought  to  go  back  and  see  about  a 
meal  for  Johnnie  in  case  he  turns  up." 

"Nonsense !"  said  Hilda,  sharply.  "With  three  ser- 
vants in  the  house,  I  suppose  Johnnie  won't  starve! 
Now  just  sit  down.  Sit  down!"  Her  tone  softened. 
"My  dear,  you're  worse  than  a  child.  .  .  .  Tell  Ed- 
win." She  put  a  cushion  behind  Janet  in  the  easy 
chair.  And  the  gesture  made  Janet's  eyes  humid  once 
more. 

Edwin  had  the  exciting,  disquieting,  vitalising  sen- 
sation of  being  shut  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  women. 
Not  two  women,  but  two  thousand,  seemed  to  hem  him 
in  with  their  incalculable  impulses,  standards,  inspi- 
rations. 

"Janet  wants  to  consult  you,"  Hilda  added;  and 
even  Hilda  appeared  to  regard  him  as  a  strong  sav- 
iour. 

He  thought: 

"After  all,  then,  I'm  not  the  born  idiot  she'd  like 
to  make  out.  Now  we're  getting  at  her  real  opinion 
of  me!" 

"It's  only  about  father's  estate,"  said  Janet. 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  205 

"Why?     Hasn't  he  made  a  will?" 

"Oh  yes!  He  made  a  will  over  thirty  years  ago. 
He  left  everything  to  mother  and  made  her  sole  ex- 
ecutor or  whatever  you  call  it.  Just  like  him,  wasn't 
it?  .  .  .  D'you  know  that  he  and  mother  never  had  a 
quarrel,  nor  anything  near  a  quarrel?" 

"Well,"  Edwin,  nodding  appreciatively,  answered 
with  an  informed  masculine  air.  "The  law  provides 
for  all  that.  Tom  will  know.  Did  your  mother  make 
a  will?" 

"No.  Dear  thing!  She  would  never  have  dreamt 
of  it." 

"Then  letters  of  administration  will  have  to  be 
taken  out,"  said  Edwin. 

Janet  began  afresh: 

"Father  was  talking  of  making  a  new  will  two  or 
three  months  ago.  He  mentioned  it  to  Tom.  He  said 
he  should  like  you  to  be  one  of  the  executors.  He 
said  he  would  sooner  have  you  for  an  executor  than 
anybody." 

An  intense  satisfaction  permeated  Edwin,  that  he 
should  have  been  desired  as  an  executor  by  such  an 
important  man  as  Osmond  Orgreave.  He  felt  as 
though  he  were  receiving  compensation  for  uncounted 
detractions. 

"Really?"  said  he.  "I  expect  Tom  will  take  out 
letters  of  administration,  or  Tom  and  Johnnie  to- 
gether; they'll  make  better  executors  than  I 
should." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  make  much  difference  who  looks 
after  it  and  who  doesn't,"  Hilda  sharply  interrupted. 
"When  there's  nothing  to  look  after." 

"Nothing  to  look  after?"  Edwin  repeated. 

"Nothing  to  look  after!"  said  Hilda  in  a  firm  and 
clear  tone.  "According  to  what  Janet  says." 


206  THESE  TWAIN 

"But  surely  there  must  be  something!" 

Janet   answered  mildly: 

"I'm  afraid  there  isn't  much." 

It  was  Hilda  who  told  the  tale.  The  freehold  of 
Lane  End  House  belonged  to  the  estate,  but  there 
were  first  and  second  mortgages  on  it,  and  had  been 
for  years.  Debts  had  always  beleaguered  the  Or- 
greave  family.  A  year  ago  money  had  apparently 
been  fairly  plentiful,  but  a  great  deal  had  been  spent 
on  re-furnishing.  Jimmie  had  had  money,  in  connec- 
tion with  his  sinister  marriage ;  Charlie  had  had  money 
in  connection  with  his  practice,  and  Tom  had  enticed 
Mr.  Orgreave  into  the  Palace  Porcelain  Company. 
Mr.  Orgreave  had  given  a  guarantee  to  the  Bank  for 
an  overdraft,  in  exchange  for  debentures  and  shares 
in  that  company.  The  debentures  were  worthless,  and 
therefore  the  shares  also,  and  the  bank  had  already 
given  notice  under  the  guarantee.  There  was  an  in- 
surance policy — one  poor  little  insurance  policy  for 
a  thousand  pounds — whosle  capital  well  invested 
might  produce  an  income  of  twelve  or  fifteen  shillings 
a  week;  but  even  that  policy  was  lodged  as  security 
for  an  overdraft  on  one  of  Osmond's  several  private 
banking  accounts.  There  were  many  debts,  small  to 
middling.  The  value  of  the  Orgreave  architectural 
connection  was  excessively  dubious — so  much  of  it  had 
depended  upon  Osmond  Orgreave  himself.  The  estate 
might  prove  barely  solvent ;  on  the  other  hand  it  might 
prove  insolvent;  so  Johnnie,  who  had  had  it  from 
Tom,  had  told  Janet  that  day,  and  Janet  had  told 
Hilda. 

"Your  father  was  let  in  for  the  Palace  Porcelain 
Company?"  Edwin  breathed,  with  incredulous  emphasis 
on  the  initial  p's.  "What  on  earth  was  Tom  think- 
ing of?" 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  207 

"That's  what  Johnnie  wants  to  know,"  said  Janet. 
"Johnnie  was  very  angry.  They've  had  some  words 
about  it." 

Except  for  the  matter  of  the  Palace  Porcelain  Com- 
pany, Edwin  was  not  surprised  at  the  revelations, 
though  he  tried  to  be.  The  more  closely  he  examined 
his  attitude  for  years  past  to  the  Orgreave  household 
structure,  the  more  clearly  he  had  to  admit  that  a 
suspicion  of  secret  financial  rottenness  had  never  long 
been  absent  from  his  mind — not  even  at  the  period  of 
renewed  profuseness,  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  furni- 
ture-dealers, painters,  and  paperhangers  had  been  en- 
riched. His  resentment  against  the  deceased  charm- 
ing Osmond  and  also  against  the  affectionate  and 
blandly  confident  mother,  was  keen  and  cold.  They 
had  existed,  morally,  on  Janet  for  many  years ;  mo- 
nopolised her,  absorbed  her,  aged  her,  worn  her  out, 
done  everything  but  finish  her, — and  they  had  made  no 
provision  for  her  survival.  In  addition  to  being  use- 
less, she  was  defenceless,  helpless,  penniless,  and  old; 
and  she  shivered  now  that  the  warmth  of  her  par- 
ents' affection  was  withdrawn  by  death. 

"You  see,"  said  Janet.  "Father  was  so  transpar- 
ently honest  and  generous." 

Edwin  said  nothing  to  this   sincere  outburst. 

"Have  you  got  any  money  at  all,  Janet?"  asked 
Hilda. 

"There's  a  little  household  money,  and  by  a  miracle 
I've  never  spent  the  ten-pound  note  poor  dad  gave 
me  on  my  last  birthday." 

"Well,"  said  Edwin,  sardonically  imaging  that  ten- 
pound  note  as  a  sole  defence  for  Janet  against  the 
world.  "Of  course  Johnnie  will  have  to  allow  you 
something  out  of  the  business — for  one  thing." 

"I'm  sure  he  will,  if  he  can,"  Janet  agreed.     "But 


208  THESE  TWAIN 

he  says  it's  going  to  be  rather  tight.  He  wants  us  to 
clear  out  of  the  house  at  once." 

"Take  my  advice  and  don't  do  it,"  said  Edwin. 
"Until  the  house  is  let  or  sold  it  may  as  well  be  occu- 
pied by  you  as  stand  empty — better  in  fact,  because 
you'll  look  after  it." 

"That's  right  enough,  anyway,"  said  Hilda,  as  if  to 
imply  that  by  a  marvellous  exception  a  man  had  for 
once  in  a  while  said  something  sensible. 

"You  needn't  use  all  the  house,"  Edwin  proceeded. 
"You  won't  want  all  the  servants." 

"I  wish  you'd  say  a  word  to  Johnnie,"  breathed 
Janet. 

"I'll  say  a  word  to  Johnnie,  all  right,"  Edwin  an- 
swered loudly.  "But  it  seems  to  me  it's  Tom  that 
wants  talking  to.  I  can't  imagine  what  he  was  doing 
to  let  your  father  in  for  that  Palace  Porcelain  busi- 
ness. It  beats  me." 

Janet  quietly  protested: 

"I  feel  sure  he  thought  it  was  all  right." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  said  Hilda,  bitterly.  "Of  course! 
They  always  do  think  it's  all  right.  And  here's  my 
husband  just  going  into  one  of  those  big  dangerous 
affairs,  and  he  thinks  it's  all  right,  and  nothing  I  can 
say  will  stop  him  from  going  into  it.  And  he'll  keep 
on  thinking  it's  all  right  until  it's  all  wrong  and  we're 
ruined,  and  perhaps  me  left  a  widow  with  George." 
Her  lowered  eyes  blazed  at  the  carpet. 

Janet,  troubled,  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
then,  with  all  the  tremendous  unconscious  persuasive 
force  of  her  victimhood  and  her  mourning,  murmured 
gently  to  Edwin: 

"Oh!    Don't  run  any  risks!    Don't  run  any  risks!" 

Edwin  was  staggered  by  the  swift  turn  of  the  con- 
versation. Two  thousand  women  hemmed  him  in  more 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  209 

closely  than  ever.  He  could  do  nothing  against  them 
except  exercise  an  obstinacy  which  might  be  esteemed 
as  merely  brutal.  They  were  not  accessible  to  argu- 
ment— Hilda  especially.  Argument  would  be  received 
as  an  outrage.  It  would  be  impossible  to  convince 
Hilda  that  she  had  taken  a  mean  and  disgraceful  ad- 
vantage of  him,  and  that  he  had  every  right  to  resent 
her  behaviour.  She  was  righteousness  and  injured- 
ness  personified.  She  partook,  in  that  moment,  of 
the  victimhood  of  Janet.  And  she  baffled  him. 

He  bit  his  lower  lip. 

"All  that's  not  the  business  before  the  meeting,"  he 
said  as  lightly  as  he  could.  "D'you  think  if  I  stepped 
down  now  I  should  catch  Johnnie  at  the  office?" 

And  all  the  time,  while  his  heart  hardened  against 
Hilda,  he  kept  thinking: 

"Suppose  I  did  come  to  smash!" 

Janet  had  put  a  fear  in  his  mind,  Janet  who  in 
her  wistfulness  and  her  desolating  ruin  seemed  to  be 
like  only  a  little  pile  of  dust — all  that  remained  of 
the  magnificent  social  structure  of  a  united  and  numer- 
ous Orgreave  family. 


Edwin  met  Tertius  Ingpen  in  the  centre  of  the 
town  outside  the  offices  of  Orgreave  and  Sons,  amid 
the  commotion  caused  by  the  return  of  uplifted  specta- 
tors from  a  football  match  in  which  the  team  curiously 
known  to  the  sporting  world  as  "Bursley  Moorthorne" 
had  scored  a  broken  leg  and  two  goals  to  nil. 

"Hello !"  Ingpen  greeted  him.  "I  was  thinking  of 
looking  in  at  your  place  to-night." 

"Do !"  said  Edwin.     "Come  up  with  me  now." 

"Can't!   .    .    .   Why  do  these  ghastly  louts  try  to 


210  THESE  TWAIN 

walk  over  you  as  if  they  didn't  see  you?"  Then  in 
another  tone,  very  quietly,  and  nodding  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Orgreave  offices:  "Been  in  there?  .  .  . 
What  a  week,  eh !  .  .  .  How  are  things  ?" 

"Bad,"  Edwin  answered.     "In  a  word,  bad!" 

Ingpen  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

They  turned  away  out  of  the  crowd,  up  towards  the 
tranquillity  of  the  Turnhill  Road.  They  were  mani- 
festly glad  to  see  each  other.  Edwin  had  had  a  satis- 
factory interview  with  Johnnie  Orgreave, — satisfac- 
tory in  the  sense  that  Johnnie  had  admitted  the  wisdom 
of  all  that  Edwin  said  and  promised  to  act  on  it. 

"I've  just  been  talking  to  young  Johnnie  for  his 
own  good,"  said  Edwin. 

And  in  a  moment,  with  eagerness,  with  that  strange 
deep  satisfaction  felt  by  the  carrier  of  disastrous  tid- 
ings, he  told  Ingpen  all  that  he  knew  of  the  plight  of 
Janet  Orgreave. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  he,  "I  think  it's  infamous." 

"Infamous,"  Ingpen  repeated  the  word  savagely. 
"There's  no  word  for  it.  What'll  she  do?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  she'll  have  to  live  with  Johnnie." 

"And  where  will  Mrs.  Chris  come  in,  then?"  Ingpen 
asked  in  a  murmur. 

"Mrs.  Chris  Hamson?"  exclaimed  Edwin  startled. 
"Oh!  Is  that  affair  still  on  the  carpet?  .  .  .  Cheer- 
ful outlook!" 

Ingpen  pulled  his  beard. 

"Anyhow,"  said  he,  "Johnnie's  the  most  reliable  of 
the  crew.  Charlie's  the  most  agreeable,  but  Johnnie's 
the  most  reliable.  I  wouldn't  like  to  count  much  on 
Tom,  and  as  for  Jimmie,  well  of  course !" 

"I  always  look  on  Johnnie  as  a  kid.    Can't  help  it." 

"There's  no  law  against  that,  so  long  as  you  don't 
go  and  blub  it  out  to  Mrs.  Chris,"  Ingpen  laughed. 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY 

"I  don't  know  her." 

"You  ought  to  know  her.  She's  an  education,  my 
boy." 

"I've  been  having  a  fair  amount  of  education 
lately,"  said  Edwin.  "Only  this  afternoon  I  was  prac- 
tically told  that  I  ought  to  give  up  the  idea  of  my  new 
works  because  it  has  risks  and  the  Palace  Porcelain 
Co.  was  risky  and  Janet  hasn't  a  cent.  See  the  point?" 

He  was  obliged  to  talk  about  the  affair,  because  it 
was  heavily  on  his  mind.  A  week  earlier  he  had  per- 
suaded himself  that  the  success  of  a  marriage  depended 
chiefly  on  the  tone  employed  to  each  other  by  the  con- 
tracting parties.  •  But  in  the  disturbing  scene  of  the 
afternoon,  his  tone  had  come  near  perfection,  and  yet 
marriage  presented  itself  as  even  more  stupendously 
difficult  than  ever.  Ingpen's  answering  words  salved 
and  strengthened  him.  The  sensation  of  being  com- 
prehended was  delicious.  Intimacy  progressed. 

"I  say,"  said  Edwin,  as  they  parted.  "You'd  better 
not  know  anything  about  all  this  when  you  come  to- 
night." 

"Right  you  are,  my  boy." 

Their  friendship  seemed  once  more  to  be  suddenly 
and  surprisingly  intensified. 

When  Edwin  returned,  Janet  had  vanished  again. 
Like  an  animal  which  fears  the  hunt  and  whose  shy- 
ness nothing  can  cure,  she  had  fled  to  cover  at  the 
first  chance.  According  to  Hilda  she  had  run  home 
because  it  had  occurred  to  her  that  she  must  go 
through  her  mother's  wardrobe  and  chest  of  drawers 
without  a  moment's  delay. 

Edwin's  account  to  his  wife  of  the  interview  with 
Johnnie  Orgreave  was  given  on  a  note  justifiably  tri- 
umphant. In  brief  he  had  "talked  sense"  to  Johnnie, 
and  Johnnie  had  been  convicted  and  convinced.  Hilda 


THESE  TWAIN 

listened  with  respectful  propriety.  Edwin  said  noth- 
ing as  to  his  encounter  with  Tertius  Ingpen,  partly 
from  prudence  and  partly  from  timidity.  When  Ing- 
pen  arrrived  at  the  house,  much  earlier  than  he  might 
have  been  expected  to  arrive,  Edwin  was  upstairs,  and 
on  descending  he  found  his  wife  and  his  friend  chat- 
ting in  low  and  intimate  voices  close  together  in  the 
drawing-room.  The  gas  had  been  lighted. 

"Here's  Mr.  Ingpen,"  said  Hilda,  announcing  a  sur- 
prise. 

"How  do,  Ingpen?" 

"How  do,  Ed?" 

Ingpen  did  not  rise.  Nor  did  they  shake  hands,  but 
in  the  Five  Towns  friends  who  have  reached  a  certain 
degree  of  intimacy  proudly  omit  the  ceremony  of  hand- 
shaking when  they  meet.  It  was  therefore  impossible 
for  Hilda  to  divine  that  Edwin  and  Tertius  had  pre- 
viously met  that  day,  and  apparently  Ingpen  had  not 
divulged  the  fact.  Edwin  felt  like  a  plotter. 

The  conversation  of  course  never  went  far  away 
from  the  subject  of  the  Orgreaves — and  Janet  in  par- 
ticular. Ingpen's  indignation  at  the  negligence  which 
had  left  Janet  in  the  lurch  was  more  than  warm  enough 
to  satisfy  Hilda,  whose  grievance  against  the  wicked 
carelessness  of  heads  of  families  in  general  seemed 
to  be  approaching  expression  again.  At  length  she 
said: 

"It's  enough  to  make  every  woman  think  seriously  of 
where  she'd  be — if  anything  happened." 

Ingpen  smiled  teasingly. 

"Now  you?re  getting  personal." 

"And  what  if  I  am?  With  my  headstrong  husband 
going  in  for  all  sorts  of  schemes!"  Hilda's  voice  was 
extraordinarily  clear  and  defiant. 

Edwin  nervously  rose. 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  213 

"I'll  just  get  some  cigarettes,"  he  mumbled. 

Hilda  and  Ingpen  scarcely  gave  him  any  attention. 
Already  they  were  exciting  themselves.  Although  he 
knew  that  the  supply  of  cigarettes  was  in  the  dining- 
room,  he  toured  half  the  house  before  going  there; 
and  then  lit  the  gas  and  with  strange  deliberation  drew 
the  blinds;  next  he  rang  the  bell  for  matches,  and, 
having  obtained  them,  lit  a  cigarette. 

When  he  re-entered  the  drawing-room,  Ingpen  was 
saying  with  terrific  conviction: 

"You're  quite  wrong,  as  I've  told  you  before.  It's 
your  instinct  that's  wrong,  not  your  head.  Women 
will  do  anything  to  satisfy  their  instincts,  simply  any- 
thing. They'll  ruin  your  life  in  order  to  satisfy  their 
instincts.  Yes,  even  when  they  know  jolly  well  their 
instincts  are  wrong!" 

Edwin  thought: 

"Well,  if  these  two  mean  to  have  a  row,  it's  no 
affair  of  mine." 

But  Hilda,  seemingly  over  faced,  used  a  very  mod- 
erate tone  to  retort: 

"You're   very   outspoken." 

Tertius  Ingpen  answered  firmly: 

"I'm  only  saying  aloud  what  every  man  thinks.  .  .  . 
Mind — every  man." 

"And  how  comes  it  that  you  know  so  much  about 
women?" 

"I'll  tell  you  sometime,"  said  Ingpen,  shortly,  and 
then  smiled  again. 

Edwin,   advancing,   murmured : 

"Here.     Have  a  cigarette." 

A  few  moments  later  Ingpen  was  sketching  out  a 
Beethoven  symphony  unaided  on  the  piano,  and  hold- 
ing his  head  back  to  keep  the  cigarette-smoke  out  of 
his  eyes. 


THESE  TWAIN 


VI 

When  the  hour  struck  for  which  Hilda  had  prom- 
ised a  sandwich  supper  Edwin  and  Tertius  Ingpen 
were  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Ingpen  was  again 
at  the  piano,  apparently  absorbed  in  harmonic  inven- 
tions of  his  own.  No  further  word  had  been  said 
upon  the  subject  of  the  discussion  between  Ingpen 
and  Hilda.  On  the  whole,  despite  the  reserve  of  Hilda's 
demeanour,  Edwin  considered  that  marriage  at  the 
moment  was  fairly  successful,  and  the  stream  of  ex- 
istence running  in  his  favour.  At  five  minutes  after 
the  hour,  restless,  he  got  up  and  said  : 

"I'd  better  be  seeing  what's  happened  to  that  sup- 
per." 

Ingpen  nodded,  as  in  a  dream. 

Edwin  glanced  into  the  dining-room,  where  the  com- 
plete supper  was  waiting  in  illuminated  silence  and 
solitude.  Then  he  went  to  the  boudoir.  There,  the 
two  candlesticks  from  the  mantelpiece  had  been  put 
side  by  side  on  the  desk,  and  the  candles  lit  the  figures 
of  Hilda  and  her  son.  Hilda,  kneeling,  held  a  stamped 
and  addressed  letter  in  her  hand,  the  boy  was  bent 
over  the  desk  at  his  drawing,  which  his  mother  re- 
garded. Edwin  in  his  heart  affectionately  derided 
them  for  employing  candles  when  the  gas  would  have 
been  so  much  more  effective;  he  thought  that  the  use 
of  candles  was  "just  like"  one  of  Hilda's  unforeseeable 
caprices.  But  in  spite  of  his  secret  derision  he  was 
strangely  affected  by  the  group  as  revealed  by  the 
wavering  candle-flames  in  the  general  darkness  of  the 
room.  He  seldom  saw  Hilda  and  George  together; 
neither  of  them  was  very  expansive;  and  certainly  he 
had  never  seen  Hilda  kneeling  by  her  son's  side  since 
a  night  at  the  Orgreaves'  before  her  marriage,  when 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY 

George  lay  in  bed  unconscious  and  his  spirit  hesitated 
between  earth  and  heaven.  He  knew  that  Hilda's  love 
for  George  had  in  it  something  of  the  savage,  but,  lack- 
ing demonstrations  of  it,  he  had  been  apt  to  forget 
its  importance  in  the  phenomena  of  their  united  ex- 
istence. Kneeling  by  her  son,  Hilda  had  the  look  of  a 
girl,  and  the  ingenuousness  of  her  posture  touched 
Edwin.  The  idea  shot  through  his  brain  like  a  star, 
that  life  was  a  marvellous  thing. 

As  the  door  had  been  ajar,  they  scarcely  heard 
him  come  in.  George  turned  first. 

And  then  Ada  was  standing  at  the  door. 

"Yes'm?" 

"Oh!  Ada!  Just  run  across  with  this  letter  to 
the  pillar,  will  you?" 

"Yes'm." 

"You've  missed  the  post,  you  know,"  said  Edwin. 

Hilda  got  up  slowly. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Only  I  want  it  to  be  in  the 
post." 

As  she  gave  the  letter  to  Ada  he  speculated  idly  as 
to  the  address  of  the  letter,  and  why  she  wanted  it 
to  be  in  the  post.  Anyhow,  it  was  characteristic  of 
her  to  want  the  thing  to  be  in  the  post.  She  would 
delay  writing  a  letter  for  days,  and  then,  having  writ- 
ten it,  be  "on  pins"  until  it  was  safely  taken  out  of 
the  house;  and  even  when  the  messenger  returned 
she  would  ask:  "Did  you  put  that  letter  in  the  post?" 

Ada  had  gone. 

"What's  he  drawing,  this  kid?"  asked  Edwin,  gen- 
ially. 

Nobody  answered.  Standing  between  his  wife  and 
the  boy  he  looked  at  the  paper.  The  first  thing  he 
noticed  was  some  lettering,  achieved  in  an  imitation 
of  architect's  lettering:  "Plan  for  proposed  new 


216  THESE  TWAIN 

printing-works  to  be  erected  by  Edwin  Claylianger, 
Esq.,  upon  land  at  Shawport.  George  Edwin  Clay- 
hanger,  architect."  And  on  other  parts  of  the  paper, 
"Ground-floor  plan"  and  "Elevation."  The  plan  at  a 
distance  resembled  the  work  of  a  real  architect.  Only 
when  closely  examined  did  it  reveal  itself  as  a  piece  of 
boyish  mimicry.  The  elevation  was  not  finished.  .  .  . 
It  was  upon  this  that,  with  intervals  caused  by  the 
necessity  of  escaping  from  bores,  George  had  been  la- 
bouring all  day.  And  here  was  exposed  the  secret  and 
the  result  of  his  chumminess  with  Johnnie  Orgreave. 
Yet  the  boy  had  never  said  a  word  to  Edwin  in 
explanation  of  that  chumminess ;  nor  had  Johnnie  him- 
self. 

"He's  been  telling  me  he's  going  to  be  an  archi- 
tect," said  Hilda. 

"Is  this  plan  a  copy  of  Johnnie's,  or  is  it  his  own 
scheme?"  asked  Edwin. 

"Oh,  his  own!"  Hilda  answered,  with  a  rapidity  and 
an  earnestness  which  disclosed  all  her  concealed  pride 
in  the  boy. 

Edwin  was  thrilled.  He  pored  over  the  plan,  mak- 
ing remarks  and  putting  queries,  in  a  dull  matter-of- 
fact  tone;  but  he  was  so  thrilled  that  he  scarcely 
knew  what  he  was  saying  or  understood  the  replies  to 
his  questions.  It  seemed  to  him  wondrous,  miraculous-, 
overwhelming,  that  his  own  disappointed  ambition  to 
be  an  architect  should  have  re-flowered  in  his  wife's 
child  who  was  not  his  child.  He  was  reconciled  to 
being  a  printer,  and  indeed  rather  liked  being  a 
printer,  but  now  all  his  career  presented  itself  to  him 
as  a  martyrisation.  And  he  passionately  swore  that 
such  a  martyrisation  should  not  happen  to  George. 
George's  .ambition  should  be  nourished  and  forwarded 
as  no  boyish  ambition  had  ever  been  nourished  and 


THE  ORGREAVE  CALAMITY  217 

forwarded  before.  For  a  moment  he  had  a  genuine 
conviction  that  George  must  be  a  genius. 

Hilda,  behind  the  back  of  proud,  silent  George, 
pulled  Edwin's  face  to  hers  and  kissed  it.  And  as  she 
kissed  she  gazed  at  Edwin  and  her  eyes  seemed  to 
be  saying :  "Have  your  works ;  I  have  yielded.  Per- 
haps it  is  George's  plan  that  has  made  me  yield,  but 
anyhow  I  am  strong  enough  to  yield.  And  my 
strength  remains." 

And  Edwin  thought:  "This  woman  is  unique.  What 
other  woman  could  have  done  that  in  just  that  way?" 
And  in  their  embrace,  intensifying  and  complicating 
its  significance,  were  mingled  the  sensations  of  their 
passion,  his  triumph,  her  surrender,  the  mysterious 
boy's  promise,  and  their  grief  for  Janet's  tragedy. 

"Old  Ingpen's  waiting  for  his  supper,  you  know," 
said  Edwin  tenderly.  "George,  you  must  show  that 
to  Mr.  Ingpen." 


BOOK  H 
THE  PAST 


CHAPTER  XI 

UTHOGRAPHY 


EDWIN,  sitting  behind  a  glazed  door  with  the  word 
"Private"  elaborately  patterned  on  the  glass,  heard 
through  the  open  window  of  his  own  office  the  voices 
of  the  Benbow  children  and  their  mother  in  the  street 
outside. 

"Oh,  Mother!     What  a  big  sign!" 

"Yes.  Isn't  Uncle  Edwin  a  proud  man  to  have  such 
a  big  sign?" 

"Hsh!" 

"It  wasn't  up  yesterday." 

"L    i   t   h    o " 

*-*J    15    15    IJ?    °5 

"My  word,  Rupy!     You  are  getting  on!" 

"They're  such  large  letters,  aren't  they,  mother? 
.  .  .  'Lithographic'  .  .  .  'Lithographic  printing.  Ed- 
win Clayhanger'." 

"Hsh !  .  .  .  Bert,  how  often  do  you  want  me  to  tell 
you  about  your  shoe-lace?" 

"I  wonder  if  George  has  come." 

"Mother,  can't  I  ring  the  bell?" 

All  the  children  were  there,  with  their  screeching 
voices.  Edwin  wondered  that  Rupert  should  have  been 
brought.  Where  was  the  sense  of  showing  a  three- 
year-old  infant  like  Rupert  over  a  printing-works? 
But  Clara  was  always  like  that.  The  difficulty  of 
leaving  little  Rupert  alone  at  home  did  not  present 
itself  to  the  august  uncle. 

221 


222  THESE  TWAIN 

Edwin  rose,  locked  a  safe  that  was  let  into  the  wall 
of  the  room,  and  dropped  the  key  into  his  pocket.  The 
fact  of  the  safe  being  let  into  the  wall  gave  him  as 
much  simple  pleasure  as  any  detail  of  the  new  works; 
it  was  an  idea  of  Johnnie  Orgreave's.  He  put  a  grey 
hat  carelessly  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and,  hands  in 
pockets,  walked  into  the  next  and  larger  room,  which 
was  the  clerks'  office. 

Both  these  rooms  had  walls  distempered  in  a  green 
tint,  and  were  fitted  and  desked  in  pitchpine.  Their 
newness  was  stark,  and  yet  in  the  clerks'  office  the  ir- 
rational habituating  processes  of  time  were  already 
at  work.  On  the  painted  iron  mantelpiece  lay  a  dusty 
white  tile,  brought  as  a  sample  long  before  the  room 
was  finished,  and  now  without  the  slightest  excuse  for 
survival.  Nevertheless  the  perfunctory  cleaner  lifted 
the  tile  on  most  mornings,  dusted  underneath  it,  and 
replaced  it;  and  Edwin  and  his  staff  saw  it  scores  cf 
times  daily  and  never  challenged  it,  and  gradually  it 
was  acquiring  a  prescriptive  right  to  exist  just  where 
it  did.  And  the  day  was  distant  when  some  incon- 
venient, reforming  person  would  exclaim: 

"What's  this  old  tile  doing  here?" 

What  Edwin  did  notice  was  that  the  walls  and  desks 
showed  marks  and  even  wounds ;  it  seemed  to  him 
somehow  wrong  that  the  brand  new  could  not  remain 
forever  brand  new.  He  thought  he  would  give  a 
mild  reproof  or  warning  to  the  elder  clerk,  (once  the 
shop-clerk  in  the  ancient  establishment  at  the  corner 
of  Duck  Bank  and  Wedgwood  Street)  and  then  he 
thought:  "What's  the  use?"  and  only  murmured: 

"I'm  not  going  off  the  works." 

And  he  passed  out,  with  his  still  somewhat  gawky 
gait,  to  the  small  entrance-hall  of  the  works.  On  the 
outer  face  of  the  door,  which  he  closed,  was  painted 


LITHOGRAPHY 

the  word  "Office."  He  had  meant  to  have  the  words 
"Counting-House"  painted  on  that  door,  because  they 
were  romantic  and  fine-sounding;  but  when  the  mo- 
ment came  to  give  the  order  he  had  quaked  before 
such  romance;  he  was  afraid  as  usual  of  being  senti- 
mental and  of  "showing  off,"  and  with  assumed  satire 
had  publicly  said:  "Some  chaps  would  stick  'Count- 
ing-house' as  large  as  life  all  across  the  door."  He 
now  regretted  his  poltroonery.  And  he  regretted  sun- 
dry other  failures  in  courage  connected  with  the  scheme 
of  the  works.  ~The  works  existed,  but  it  looked  rather 
like  other  new  buildings,  and  not  very  much  like  the 
edifice  he  had  dreamed.  It  ought  to  have  been  grander, 
more  complete,  more  dashingly  expensive,  more  of  an 
exemplar  to  the  slattern  district.  He  had  been  (he 
felt)  unduly  influenced  by  the  local  spirit  for  half- 
measures.  And  his  life  seemed  to  be  a  life  of  half- 
measures,  a  continual  falling-short.  Once  he  used  to 
read  studiously  on  Tuesday,  Thursday  and  Saturday 
evenings.  He  seldom  read  now,  and  never  with  regu- 
larity. Scarcely  a  year  ago  he  had  formed  a  beauti- 
ful vague  project  of  being  "musical."  At  Hilda's  in- 
stigation he  had  bought  a  book  of  musical  criticism  by 
Hubert  Parry,  and  •  Hilda  had  swallowed  it  in  three 
daysr  but  he  had  begun  it  and  not  finished  it.  And  the 
musical  evenings,  after  feeble  efforts  to  invigorate 
them,  had  fainted  and  then  died  on  the  miserable  ex- 
cuse that  circumstances  were  not  entirely  favourable 
to  them.  And  his  marriage,  so  marvellous  in  its  ro- 
mance during  the  first  days  .  .  .  ! 

Then  either  his  commonsense  or  his  self-respect 
curtly  silenced  these  weak  depreciations.  He  had 
wanted  the  woman  and  he  had  won  her, — he  had  taken 
her.  There  she  was,  living  in  his  house,  bearing  his 
name,  spending  his  money!  The  world  could  not  get 


THESE  TWAIN 

over  that  fact,  and  the  carper  in  Edwin's  secret  soul 
could  not  get  over  it  either.  He  had  said  that  he 
would  have  a  new  works,  and,  with  all  its  faults  and 
little  cowardices,  there  the  new  works  was !  And  more- 
over it  had  just  been  assessed  for  municipal  rates  at 
a  monstrous  figure.  He  had  bought  his  house  (and 
mortgaged  it);  he  had  been  stoical  to  bad  debts;  he 
had  sold  securities — at  rather  less  than  they  cost  him; 
he  had  braved  his  redoubtable  wife;  and  he  had  got 
his  works!  His  will,  and  naught  else,  was  the  magic 
wand  that  had  conjured  it  into  existence. 

The  black  and  gold  sign  that  surmounted  its  blue 
roofs  could  be  seen  from  the  top  of  Acre  Lane  and 
half  way  along  Shawport  Lane,  proclaiming  the  pro- 
gress of  lithography  and  steam-printing,  and  the  name 
of  Edwin  Clayhanger.  Let  the  borough  put  that  in 
its  pipe  and  smoke  it!  He  was  well  aware  that  the 
borough  felt  pride  in  his  works.  And  he  had  orders 
more  than  sufficient  to  keep  the  enterprise  handsomely 
going.  Even  in  the  Five  Towns  initiative  seemed  to 
receive  its  reward.! 

Life  might  be  as  profoundly  unsatisfactory  as  you 
pleased,  but  there  was  zest  in  it. 

The  bell  had  rung.  He  opened  the  main  door,  and 
there  stood  Clara  and  her  brood.  And  Edwin  was  the 
magnificent,  wonderful  uncle.  The  children  entered, 
with  maternal  precautions  and  recommendations. 
Every  child  was  clean  and  spruce:  Bert  clumsy, 
Clara  minxlike,  Amy  heavy  and  benignant,  Lucy  the 
pretty  little  thing,  and  Rupert  simply  adorable — each 
representing  a  separate  and  considerable  effort  of 
watchful  care.  The  mother  came  last,  worn,  still 
pretty,  with  a  slight  dragging  movement  of  the  limbs. 
In  her  glittering  keen  eyes  were  both  envy  and  naive 
admiration  of  her  brother.  "What  a  life!"  thought 


LITHOGRAPHY 

Edwin,  meaning  what  a  narrow,  stuffy,  struggling, 
conventional,  unlovely  existence  was  the  Benbows' !  He 
and  they  lived  in  different  worlds  of  intelligence.  Nev- 
ertheless he  savoured  the  surpassing  charm  of  Rupert, 
the  goodness  of  Amy,  the  floral  elegance  of  Lucy,  and 
he  could  appreciate  the  unending  labours  of  that 
mother  of  theirs,  malicious  though  she  was.  He  was 
bluff  and  jolly  with  all  of  them.  The  new  works  being 
fairly  close  to  the  Benbow  home,  the  family  had  often 
come  en  masse  to  witness  its  gradual  mounting,  re- 
garding the  excursions  as  a  sort  of  picnic.  And  now 
that  the  imposing  place  was  inaugurated  and  the  signs 
up,  Uncle  Edwin  had  been  asked  to  show  them  over 
it  in  a  grand  formal  visit,  and  he  had  amiably  con- 
sented. 

"Has  George  come,  Uncle  Edwin?"  asked  Bert. 

George  had  not  come.  A  reconciliation  had  oc- 
curred between  the  cousins  (though  by  no  means  at 
the  time  nor  in  the  manner  desired  by  Albert)  ;  they 
were  indeed  understood  by  the  Benbows  to  be  on  the 
most  touching  terms  of  intimacy,  which  was  very  sat- 
isfactory to  the  righteousness  of  Albert  and  Clara ;  and 
George  was  to  have  been  of  the  afternoon  party;  but 
he  had  not  arrived.  Edwin,  knowing  the  unknow- 
ableness  of  George,  suspected  trouble. 

"Machines  !  Machines  !"  piped  tiny  white-f rocked 
Rupert,  to  whom  wondrous  tales  had  been  told. 

"You'll  see  machines  all  right,"  said  Edwin  pro- 
misingly. It  was  not  his  intention  to  proceed  straight 
to  the  machine-room.  He  would  never  have  admitted 
it,  but  his  deliberate  intention  was  to  display  the 
works  dramatically,  with  the  machine-room  as  a  cul- 
mination. The  truth  was,  the  man  was  full  of  secret 
tricks,  contradicting  avuncular  superior  indifference. 
He  was  a  mere  boy — he  was  almost  a  school-girl. 


226  THESE  TWAIN 

He  led  them  through  a  longish  passage,  and  up 
steps  and  down  steps — steps  which  were  not  yet  hol- 
lowed, but  which  would  be  hollowed — into  the  stone- 
polishing  shop,  which  was  romantically  obscure,  with 
a  specially  dark  corner  where  a  little  contraption  was 
revolving  all  by  itself  in  the  process  of  smoothing  a 
stone.  Young  Clara  stared  at  the  two  workmen,  while 
the  rest  stared  at  the  contraption,  and  Edwin,  feeling 
ridiculously  like  a  lecturer,  mumbled  words  of  exposi- 
tion. And  then  next,  after  climbing  some  steps,  they 
were  in  a  lofty  apartment  with  a  glass  roof,  sunshine- 
drenched  and  tropical.  Here  lived  two  more  men,  in- 
cluding Karl  the  German,  bent  in  perspiration  over 
desks,  and  laboriously  drawing.  Round  about  were 
coloured  designs,  and  stones  covered  with  pencilling, 
and  boards,  and  all  sorts  of  sheets  of  paper  and  card- 
board. 

"Ooh!"  murmured  Bert,  much  impressed  by  the  me- 
ticulous cross-hatching  of  Karl's  pencil  on  a  stone. 

And  Edwin  said: 

"This  is  the  drawing-office." 

"Oh  yes !"  murmured  Clara  vaguely.  "It's  very 
warm,  isn't  it?" 

None  of  them  except  Bert  was  interested.  They 
gazed  about  dully,  uncomprehendingly,  absolutely  in- 
curious. 

"Machines !"  Rupert  urged  again. 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Edwin  going  out  with  as- 
sumed briskness  and  gaiety. 

At  the  door  stood  Tertius  Ingpen,  preoccupied  and 
alert,  with  all  the  mien  of  a  factory  inspector  in  full 
activity. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  said  Ingpen,  "I  can  look  after 
myself.  In  fact  I  prefer  to." 

At  the  sight  of  an  important  stranger  speaking  fa- 


LITHOGRAPHY 

miliarly  to  Uncle  Edwin,  all  the  children  save  Rupert 
grew  stiff,  dismal  and  apprehensive,  and  Clara  looked 
about  as  though  she  had  suddenly  discovered  very  in- 
teresting phenomena  in  the  corners  of  the  workshop. 

"My  sister,  Mrs.  Benbow — Mr.  Ingpen.  Mr.  Ing- 
pen  is  Her  Majesty's  Inspector  of  Factories,  so  we 
must  mind  what  we're  about,"  said  Edwin. 

Clara  gave  a  bright,  quick  smile  as  she  limply 
shook  hands.  The  sinister  enchantment  which  pre- 
cedes social  introduction  was  broken.  And  Clara, 
overcome  by  the  extraordinary  chivalry  and  deference 
of  Ingpen's  customary  greeting  to  women,  decided  that 
he  was  a  particularly  polite  man;  but  she  reserved  her 
general  judgment  on  him,  having  several  times  heard 
Albert  inveigh  against  the  autocratic  unreasonable- 
ness of  this  very  inspector,  who,  according  to  Albert, 
forgot  that  even  an  employer  had  to  live,  and  that 
that  which  handicapped  the  employer  could  not  pos- 
sibly help  the  workman — "in  the  long  run." 

"Machines !"  Rupert  insisted. 

They  all  laughed;  the  other  children  laughed  sud- 
denly and  imitatively,  and  an  instant  later  than  the 
elders;  and  Tertius  Ingpen,  as  he  grasped  the  full 
purport  of  the  remark,  laughed  more  than  anyone. 
He  turned  sideways  and  bent  slightly  in  order  to  give 
vent  to  his  laughter,  which,  at  first  noiseless  and  im- 
prisoned, gradually  grew  loud  in  freedom.  When  he 
had  recovered,  he  said  thoughtfully,  stroking  his  soft 
beard : 

"Now  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  know  exactly 
what  that  child  understands  by  'machines' — what  his 
mental  picture  of  them  is.  Very  interesting!  Has 
he  ever  seen  any?" 

"No,"  said  Clara. 

"Ah!    That  makes  it  all  the  more  interesting,"  Ing- 


THESE  TWAIN 

pen  added  roguishly:  "I  suppose  you  think  you  do 
know,  Mrs.  Benbow?" 

Clara  smiled  the  self-protective,  non-committal  smile 
of  one  who  is  not  certain  of  having  seen  the  point. 

"It's  very  hot  in  here,  Edwin,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  the  door.  The  family  filed  out,  shepherded  by 
Edwin. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  sec,"  said  he  to  Clara,  on  the 
stairs,  and  returned  to  the  drawing-office. 

Ingpen  was  in  apparently  close  conversation  with 
Karl. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Ingpen,  thoughtfully  tapping  his 
teeth.  "The  whole  process  is  practically  a  contest  be- 
tween grease  and  water  on  the  stone." 

"Yes,"  said  Karl  gruffly,  but  with  respect. 

And  Edwin  could  almost  see  the  tentacles  of  Ing- 
pen's  mind  feeling  and  tightening  round  a  new  sub- 
ject of  knowledge,  and  greedily  possessing  it.  What 
a  contrast  to  the  vacuous  indifference  of  Clara,  who 
was  so  narrowed  by  specialisation  that  she  could  never 
apply  her  brain  to  anything  except  the  welfare  and 
the  aggrandizement  of  her  family !  He  dwelt  sardon- 
ically upon  the  terrible  results  of  family  life  on  the 
individual,  and  dreamed  of  splendid  freedoms. 

"Mr.  Clayhanger,"  said  Ingpen,  in  his  official  man- 
ner, turning. 

The  two  withdrew  to  the  door.  Invisible,  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  could  be  heard  the  family,  existing. 

"Haven't  seen  much  of  lithography,  eh?"  said  Ed- 
win, in  a  voice  discreetly  restrained. 

Ingpen,  ignoring  the  question,  murmured: 

"I  say,  you  know  this  place  is  much  too  hot." 

"Well,"  said  Edwin.  "What  do  you  expect  in  Au- 
gust?" 

"But  what's  the  object  of  all  that  glass  roof?" 


LITHOGRAPHY 

"I  wanted  to  give  'em  plenty  of  light.  At  the  old 
shop  they  hadn't  enough,  and  Karl,  the  Teuton  there, 
was  always  grumbling." 

"Why  didn't  you  have  some  ventilation  in  the  roof?" 

"We  did  think  of  it.  But  Johnnie  Orgreave  said  if 
we  did  we  should  never  be  able  to  keep  it  watertight." 

"It  certainly  isn't  right  as  it  is,"  said  Ingpen.  "And 
our  experience  is  that  these  skylighted  rooms  that  are 
too  hot  in  summer  are  too  cold  in  winter.  How  should 
you  like  to  have  your  private  office  in  here?" 

"Oh!"  protested  Edwin.  "It  isn't  so  bad  as  all 
that." 

Ingpen  said  quietly: 

"I  should  suggest  you  think  it  over — I  mean  the 
ventilation." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  this  shop  here 
doesn't  comply  with  your  confounded  rules?" 

Ingpen  answered: 

"That  may  or  may  not  be.  But  we're  entitled  to 
make  recommendations  in  any  case,  and  I  should  like 
you  to  think  this  over,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  haven't 
any  thermometer  with  me,  but  I  lay  it's  ninety  de- 
grees here,  if  not  more."  In  Ingpen's  urbane,  reas- 
onable tone  there  was  just  a  hint  of  the  potential 
might  of  the  whole  organised  kingdom. 

"All  serene,"  said  Edwin,  rather  ashamed  of  the  tem- 
perature after  all,  and  loyally  responsive  to  Ingpen's 
evident  sense  of  duty,  which  somehow  surprised  him; 
he  had  not  chanced,  before,  to  meet  Ingpen  at  work; 
earthenware  manufactories  were  inspected  once  a  quar- 
ter, but  other  factories  only  once  a  year.  The  thought 
of  the  ameliorating  influence  that  Ingpen  must  obvi- 
ously be  exerting  all  day  and  every  day  somewhat 
clashed  with  and  overset  his  bitter  scepticism  concern- 
ing the  real  value  of  departmental  administrative  gov- 


230  THESE  TWAIN 

eminent, — a  scepticism  based  less  upon  experience 
than  upon  the  persuasive  tirades  of  democratic  apos- 
tles. 

They  walked  slowly  towards  the  stairs,  and  Ingpen 
scribbled  in  a  notebook. 

"You  seem  to  take  your  job  seriously,"  said  Ed- 
win, teasing. 

"While  I'm  at  it.  Did  you  imagine  that  I'd  dropped 
into  a  sinecure?  Considering  that  I  have  to  keep  an 
eye  on  three  hundred  and  fifty  potbanks,  over  a  thous- 
and other  factories,  and  over  two  thousand  workshops 
of  sorts,  my  boy  .  .  .  !  And  you  should  see  some 
of  'em.  And  you  should  listen  to  the  excuses." 

"No  wonder,"  thought  Edwin,  "he  hasn't  told  me 
what  a  fine  and  large  factory  mine  is !  .  .  .  Still,  he 
might  have  said  something,  all  the  same.  Perhaps  he 
will." 

When,  after  visiting  the  composing-room,  and 
glancing  from  afar  at  the  engine-house,  the  sight-see- 
ing party  reached  the  machine-room,  Rupert  was  so 
affected  by  the  tremendous  din  and  the  confusing  whir 
of  huge  machinery  in  motion  that  he  began  to  cry, 
and,  seizing  his  mother's  hand,  pressed  himself  hard 
against  her  skirt.  The  realisation  of  his  ambition  had 
overwhelmed  him.  Amy  protectingly  took  Lucy's  hand. 
Bert  and  Clara  succeeded  in  being  very  casual. 

In  the  great  lofty  room  there  were  five  large  or  fairly 
large  machines,  and  a  number  of  small  ones.  The 
latter  had  chiefly  to  do  with  envelope  and  bill-head 
printing  and  with  bookbinding,  and  only  two  of  them 
were  in  use.  Of  the  large  machines,  three  were  func- 
tioning— the  cylinder  printing-machine  which  had  been 
the  pride  of  Edwin's  father,  the  historic  "old  machine," 
also  his  father's,  which  had  been  so  called  ever  since 
Edwin  could  remember  and  which  was  ageless,  and 


LITHOGRAPHY 

Edwin's  latest  and  most  expensive  purchase,  the 
"Smithers"  litho-printer.  It  was  on  the  guarded 
flank  of  the  Smithers,  close  to  the  roller-racks,  that 
Edwin  halted  his  convoy.  The  rest  of  the  immense 
shop  with  its  complex  masses  of  metal  revolving,  slid- 
ing, or  paralysed,  its  shabby  figures  of  men,  boys, 
and  girls  shifting  mysteriously  about,  its  smell  of 
iron,  grease,  and  humanity,  and  its  fearful  racket, 
was  a  mere  background  for  the  Smithers  in  its  moving 
might. 

The  Smithers  rose  high  above  the  spectators,  and 
at  one  end  of  it,  higher  even  than  the  top  parts  of  the 
machine,  was  perched  a  dirty,  frowsy,  pretty  girl. 
With  a  sweeping  gesture  of  her  bare  arms  this  girl 
took  a  wide  sheet  of  blank  paper  from  a  pile  of  sheets, 
and  lodged  it  on  the  receiving  rack,  whereupon  it  was 
whirled  off,  caught  into  the  clutches  of  the  machine, 
turned,  reversed,  hidden  away  from  sight  among  re- 
volving rollers  red  and  black,  and  finally  thrust  out 
at  the  other  end  of  the  machine,  where  it  was  picked 
up  by  a  dirty,  frowsy  girl,  not  pretty,  smaller  and 
younger  than  the  high-perched  creature,  indeed 
scarcely  bigger  than  Amy.  And  now  on  the  sheet 
was  printed  four  times  in  red  the  words  "Knype 
Mineral  Water  Mnfg.  Co.  Best  and  cheapest.  Trade- 
mark." Clara  screeched  a  question  about  the  trade- 
mark, which  was  so  far  invisible.  Edwin  made  a  sign 
to  the  lower  dirty,  frowsy  girl,  who  respectfully 
but  with  extreme  rapidity  handed  him  a  sheet  as  it  came 
off  the  machine,  and  he  shouted  through  the  roar  in  ex- 
planation that  the  trademark,  a  soda-water  syphon  in 
blue,  would  be  printed  on  the  same  sheet  later  from  an- 
other stone,  and  the  sheets  cut  into  fours,  each  quarter 
making  a  complete  poster.  "I  thought  it  must  be  like 
that,"  replied  Clara  superiorly.  From  childhood  she 


THESE  TWAIN 

had  been  well  accustomed  to  printing  processes,  and  it 
was  not  her  intention  to  be  perplexed  by  "this  lithog- 
raphy." Edwin  made  a  gesture  to  hand  back  the  sheet 
to  the  machine-girl,  but  the  machine  would  not  pause 
to  allow  her  to  take  it.  She  was  the  slave  of  the 
machine;  so  long  as  it  functioned,  every  second  of 
her  existence  was  monopolised,  and  no  variation  of 
conduct  permissible.  The  same  law  applied  to  the 
older  girl  up  near  the  ceiling.  He  put  the  sheet  in  its 
place  himself,  and  noticed  that  to  do  so  required  ap- 
preciable care  and  application  of  the  manipulative 
faculty. 

These  girls,  and  the  other  girls  at  their  greasy 
task  in  the  great  shaking  interior  which  he  had  created, 
vaguely  worried  him.  Exactly  similar  girls  were  em- 
ployed in  thousands  on  the  pot-banks,  and  had  once 
been  employed  also  at  the  pit-heads  and  even  in  the 
pits;  but  until  lately  he  had  not  employed  girls,  nor 
had  his  father  ever  employed  girls;  and  these  girls 
so  close  to  him,  so  dependent  on  him,  so  submissive, 
so  subjugated,  so  soiled,  so  vulgar,  whose  wages  would 
scarcely  have  kept  his  wife  in  boots  and  gloves,  gave 
rise  to  strange  and  disturbing  sensations  in  his  heart 
— not  merely  in  regard  to  themselves,  but  in  regard  to 
the  whole  of  the  workpeople.  A  question  obscure  and 
lancinating  struck  upwards  through  his  industrial 
triumph  and  through  his  importance  in  the  world,  a 
question  scarcely  articulate,  but  which  seemed  to  form 
itself  into  the  words:  Is  it  right? 

"Is  what  right?"  his  father  would  have  snapped  at 
him.  "Is  what  right?"  would  have  respectfully  de- 
manded Big  James,  who  had  now  sidled  grandiosely 
to  the  Smithers,  and  was  fussing  among  the  rollers 
in  the  rack.  Neither  of  them  would  have  been  capable 
of  comprehending  his  trouble.  To  his  father  an 


LITHOGRAPHY 

employee  was  an  employee,  to  be  hired  as  cheaply  as 
possible,  and  to  be  exploited  as  completely  as  possible. 
And  the  attitude  of  Big  James  towards  the  under- 
lings was  precisely  that  of  his  deceased  master.  They 
would  not  be  unduly  harsh,  they  would  often  be 
benevolent,  but  the  existence  of  any  problem,  and  es- 
pecially any  fundamental  problem,  beyond  the  direct 
inter-relation  of  wages  and  work  could  not  conceivably 
have  occurred  to  them.  After  about  three  quarters  of 
a  century  of  taboo  trade-unions  had  now  for  a  dozen 
years  ceased  to  be  regarded  as  associations  of  anarch- 
istic criminals.  Big  James  was  cautiously  in  favor 
of  trade-unions,  and  old  Darius  Clayhanger  in  late 
life  had  not  been  a  quite  uncompromising  opponent  of 
them.  As  for  Edwin,  he  had  always  in  secret  sym- 
pathised with  them,  and  the  trade-unionists  whom 
he  employed  had  no  grievance  against  him.  Yet  this 
unanswerable,  persistent  question  would  pierce  the 
complacency  of  Edwin's  prosperity.  It  seemed  to 
operate  in  a  sort  of  fourth  dimension ;  few  even  amongst 
trade-unionists  themselves  would  have  reacted  to  it. 
But  Edwin  lived  with  it  more  and  more.  He  was  indeed 
getting  used  to  it.  Though  he  could  not  answer  it, 
he  could  parry  it,  thanks  to  scientific  ideas  obtained 
from  Darwin  and  Spencer,  by  the  reflection  that  both 
he  and  his  serfs,  whatever  their  sex,  were  the  almost 
blind  agencies  of  a  vast  process  of  evolution.  And 
this  he  did,  exulting  with  pride  sometimes  in  the  sheer 
adventure  of  the  affair,  and  sharing  his  thoughts  with 
none.  .  .  .  Strange  that  once,  and  not  so  many  years 
ago  either,  he  had  been  tempted  to  sell  the  business 
and  live  inert  and  ignobly  secure  on  the  interest  of 
invested  moneys!  But  even  to-day  he  felt  sudden 
fears  of  responsibility ;  they  came  and  went. 

The  visitors,  having  wandered  to  and  fro,  staring, 


THESE  TWAIN 

trailed  out  of  the  machine-room,  led  by  Edwin.  A 
wide  door  swung  behind  them,  and  they  were  in  the 
abrupt,  startling  peace  of  another  corridor.  Clara 
wiped  Rupert's  eyes,  and  he  smiled,  like  a  blossom 
after  a  storm.  The  mother  and  the  uncle  exchanged 
awkward  glances.  They  had  nothing  whatever  to  say 
to  each  other.  Edwin  could  seldom  think  of  anything 
that  he  really  wanted  to  say  to  Clara.  The  children 
were  very  hot  and  weary  of  wonders. 

"Well,"  said  Clara,  "I  suppose  we'd  better  be  mov- 
ing on  now."  She  had  somewhat  the  air  of  a  draught- 
animal  about  to  resume  the  immense  labour  of  drag- 
ging a  train.  "It's  very  queer  about  George.  He  was 
to  have  come  with  us  for  tea." 

"Oh!     Was   he?" 

"Of  course  he  was,"  Clara  replied  sharply.  "It 
was  most  distinctly  arranged." 

At  this  moment  Tertius  Ingpen  and  Hilda  appeared 
together  at  the  other  end  of  the  corridor.  Hilda's 
unsmiling  face  seemed  enigmatic.  Ingpen  was  talking 
with  vivacity. 

Edwin  thought  apprehensively: 

"What's  up  now?  What's  she  doing  here,  and  not 
George?" 

And  when  the  sisters-in-law,  so  strangely  contrast- 
ing, shook  hands,  he  thought: 

"Is  it  possible  that  Albert  looks  on  his  wife  as 
something  unpredictable?  Do  those  two  also  have 
moods,  and  altercations  and  antagonisms?  Are  they 
always  preoccupied  about  what  they  are  thinking  of 
each  other?  No!  It's  impossible.  Their  life  must 
be  simply  fiendishly  monotonous."  And  Clara's  in- 
feriority before  the  erect,  flashing  individuality  of 
Hilda  appeared  to  him  despicable.  Hilda  bent  and 
kissed  Rupert,  Lucy,  Amy  and  young  Clara,  as  it 


LITHOGRAPHY  235 

were  with  passion.  She  was  marvellous  as  she  bent 
over  Rupert.  She  scarcely  looked  at  Edwin.  Ingpen 
stood  aside. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Hilda  perfunctorily.  "I  had 
to  send  George  on  an  errand  to  Hanbridge  at  the  last 
moment." 

Nothing  more !  No  genuine  sign  of  regret !  Edwin 
blamed  her  severely.  "Send  George  on  an  errand  to 
Hanbridge!"  That  was  Hilda  all  over!  Why  the 
devil  should  she  go  out  of  her  way  to  make  unpleasant- 
ness with  Clara?  She  knew  quite  well  what  kind  of  a 
woman  Clara  was,  and  that  the  whole  of  Clara's  exist- 
ence was  made  up  of  domestic  trifles,  each  of  which 
was  enormous  for  her. 

"Will  he  be  down  to  tea?"  asked  Clara. 

"I  doubt  it." 

"Well  .  .  .  another  day,  then." 

Clara,  gathering  her  offspring,  took  leave  at  a  door 
in  the  corridor  which  gave  on  to  the  yard.  Mindful 
to  the  last  of  Mr.  Ingpen's  presence  (which  Hilda 
apparently  now  ignored),  she  smiled  sweetly  as  she 
went.  But  behind  the  smile,  Edwin  with  regret,  and 
Hilda  with  satisfaction,  could  perceive  her  everlasting 
grudge  against  their  superior  splendour.  Even  had 
they  sunk  to  indigence  Clara  could  never  have  for- 
given Edwin  for  having  towards  the  end  of  their 
father's  life  prevented  Albert  from  wheedling  a  thou- 
sand pounds  out  of  old  Darius,  nor  Hilda  for  her  occa- 
sional pricking,  unanswerable  sarcasms.  .  .  .  Still, 
Rupert,  descending  two  titanic  steps  into  the  yard, 
clung  to  his  mother  as  to  an  angel. 

"And  what  errand  to  Hanbridge?"  Edwin  asked  him- 
self mistrustfully. 


236  THESE  TWAIN 


Scarcely  a  minute  later,  when  Edwin,  with  Hilda  and 
Ingpen,  was  back  at  the  door  of  the  machine-room, 
the  office  boy  could  be  seen  voyaging  between  roaring 
machines  across  the  room  towards  his  employer.  The 
office  boy  made  a  sign  of  appeal,  and  Edwin  answered 
with  a  curt  sign  that  the  office  boy  was  to  wait. 

"What's  that  ye  say  ?"  Edwin  yelled  in  Ingpen's  ear. 

Ingpen  laughed,  and  made  a  trumpet  with  his  hands : 

"I  was  only  wondering  what  your  weekly  running 
expenses  are." 

Even  Ingpen  was  surprised  and  impressed  by  the 
scene,  and  Edwin  was  pleased  now,  after  the  flatness 
of  Clara's  inspection,  that  he  had  specially  arranged 
for  two  of  the  machines  to  be  running  which  strictly 
need  not  have  been  running  that  afternoon.  He  had 
planned  a  spectacular  effect,  and  it  had  found  a  good 
public. 

"Ah!"  He  hesitated,  in  reply  to  Ingpen.  Then 
he  saw  Hilda's  face,  and  his  face  showed  confusion  and 
he  smiled  awkwardly. 

Hilda  had  caught  Ingpen's  question.  She  said 
nothing.  Her  expressive,  sarcastic,  unappeasable 
features  seemed  to  say :  "Running  expenses !  Don't 
mention  them.  Can't  you  see  they  must  be  enormous? 
How  can  he  possibly  make  this  place  pay?  It's  a 
gigantic  folly — and  what  will  be  the  end  of  it?" 

After  all,  her  secret  attitude  towards  the  new  enter- 
prise was  unchanged.  Arguments,  facts,  figures,  per- 
suasions, brutalities  had  been  equally  and  totally  in- 
effective. And  Edwin  thought: 

"She  is  the  bitterest  enemy  I  have." 

Said  Ingpen: 

*'I  like  that  girl  up  there  on  the  top  of  that  machine. 


LITHOGRAPHY  237 

And  doesn't  she  just  know  where  she  is!  What  a 
movement  of  the  arms,  eh?" 

Edwin  nodded,  appreciative,  and  then  beckoned  to 
the  office  boy. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Please,  Sir,  Mrs.  'Amps  in  the  office  to  see  you." 

"All  right,"  he  bawled,  casually.  But  in  reality  he 
was  taken  aback.  "It's  Auntie  Hamps  now!"  he  said 
to  the  other  two.  "We  shall  soon  have  all  Bursley 
here  this  afternoon." 

Hilda  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"D'you  know  'Auntie  Hamps'?"  she  grimly  asked 
Ingpen.  Her  voice,  though  she  scarcely  raised  it,  was 
plainer  than  the  men's  when  they  shouted.  As  Ingpen 
shook  his  head,  she  added:  "You  ought  to." 

Edwin  did  not  altogether  care  for  this  public  ridicule 
of  a  member  of  the  family.  Auntie  Hamps,  though 
possibly  a  monster,  had  her  qualities.  Hilda,  assum- 
ing the  lead,  beckoned  with  a  lift  of  the  head.  And 
Edwin  did  not  care  for  that  either,  on  his  works.  Ing- 
pen followed  Hilda  as  though  to  a  menagerie. 

Auntie  Hamps,  in  her  black  attire,  which  by  virtue 
of  its  changeless  style  amounted  to  a  historic  uniform, 
was  magnificent  in  the  private  office.  The  three  found 
her  standing  in  wait,  tingling  with  vitality  and  im- 
portance and  eagerness.  She  watched  carefully  that 
Edwin  shut  the  door,  and  kept  her  eye  not  only  on  the 
door  but  also  on  the  open  window.  She  received  the 
presentation  of  Mr.  Tertius  Ingpen  with  grandeur  and 
with  high  cordiality,  and  she  could  appreciate  even  bet- 
ter than  Clara  the  polished  fealty  of  his  greeting. 

"Sit  down,  Auntie." 

"No,  I  won't  sit  down.  I  thought  Clara  was  here. 
I  told  her  I  might  come  if  I  could  spare  a  moment. 
I  must  say,  Edwin" — she  looked  around  the  small  office, 


238  THESE  TWAIN  ^^. 

and  seemed  to  be  looking  round  the  whole  works  in  a 
superb  glance — "you  make  me  proud  of  you.  You 
make  me  proud  to  be  your  Auntie." 

"Well,"  said  Edwin,  "you  can  be  proud  sitting 
down." 

She  smiled.  "No,  I  won't  sit  down.  I  only  just 
popped  in  to  catch  Clara.  I  was  going  to  tea  with  her 
and  the  chicks."  Then  she  lowered  her  voice :  "I  sup- 
pose you've  heard  about  Mr.  John  Orgreave?"  Her 
tone  proved,  however,  that  she  r  jpposed  nothing  of 
the  kind. 

"No.     What  about  Johnnie?'' 
"He's  run  away  with  Mrs.  'Jhris  Hamson." 
Her  triumph  was  complete.     It  was  perhaps  one  of 
her  last  triumphs,  but  it  counted  among  the  greatest 
of  her  career  as  a  watchdog  of  society. 

The  thing  was  a  major  event,  and  the  report  was 
convincing.  Useless  to  protest  "Never !"  "Surely  not '" 
"It  can't  be  true !"  It  carried  truth  on  its  face.  Use- 
less to  demand  sternly:  "Who  told  you?"  The  news 
had  reached  Auntie  Hamps  through  a  curious  chan- 
nel— the  stationmaster  at  Latchett.  Heaven  alone 
could  say  how  Auntie  Hamps  came  to  have  relations 
with  the  stationmaster  at  Latchett.  But  you  might 
be  sure  that,  if  an  elopement  was  to  take  place  from 
Latchett  station,  Auntie  Hamps  would  by  an  instinc- 
tive prescience  have  had  relations  with  the  station- 
master  for  twenty  years  previously.  Latchett  was  the 
next  station,  without  the  least  importance,  to  Shaw- 
port  on  the  line  to  Crewe.  Johnnie  Orgreave  had  got 
into  the  train  at  Shawport,  and  Mrs.  Chris  had  joined 
it  at  Latchett,  her  house  being  near  by.  Once  on  the 
vast  platforms  of  Crewe,  the  guilty  couple  would  be 
safe  from  curiosity,  lost  in  England,  like  needles  in  a 
haystack. 


LITHOGRAPHY  239 

The  Orgreave-Hamson  flirtation  had  been  afoot  for 
over  two  years,  but  had  only  been  seriously  talked 
about  for  less  than  a  year.  Mrs.  Chris  did  not  "move" 
much  in  town  circles.  She  was  older  than  Johnnie, 
but  she  was  one  of  your  blonde,  slim,  unfruitful  women, 
who  under  the  shade  of  a  suitable  hat-brim  are  ageless. 
Mr.  Chris  was  a  heavy  man,  "glumpy"  as  they  say 
down  there,  a  moneymaker  in  pots,  and  great  on  the 
colonial  markets.  He  made  journeys  to  America  and 
to  Australia.  His  Australian  journey  occupied  usually 
about  four  months.  He  was  now  on  his  way  back 
from  Sydney,  and  nearly  home.  Mrs.  Chris  had  not 
long  since  inherited  a  moderate  fortune.  It  must  have 
been  the  fortune,  rendering  them  independent,  that  had 
decided  the  tragic  immoralists  to  abandon  all  for  love. 
The  time  of  the  abandonment  was  fixed  for  them  by 
circumstance,  for  it  had  to  occur  before  the  husband's 
return. 

Imagine  the  Orgreave  business  left  in  the  hands  of 
an  incompetent  irresponsible  like  Jimmie  Orgreave! 
And  then,  what  of  that  martyr,  Janet?  Janet  and 
Johnnie  had  been  keeping  house  together — a  tiny  house. 
And  Janet  had  had  to  "have  an  operation."  Women, 
talking  together,  said  exactly  what  the  operation  was, 
but  the  knowledge  was  not  common.  The  phrase  "have 
an  operation"  was  enough  in  its  dread.  As  a  fact  the 
operation,  for  calculus,  was  not  very  serious ;  it  had 
perfectly  succeeded,  and  Janet,  whom  Hilda  had  ten- 
derly visited,  was  to  emerge  from  the  nursing  home  at 
Knype  Vale  within  three  days.  Could  not  Johnnie 
and  his  Mrs.  Chris  have  waited  until  she  was  re-estab- 
lished? No,  for  the  husband  was  unpreventibly  ap- 
proaching, and  romantic  love  must  not  be  baulked. 
Nothing  could  or  should  withstand  romantic  love. 
Janet  had  not  even  been  duly  warned;  Hilda  had  seen 


240  THESE  TWAIN 

her  that  very  morning,  and  assuredly  she  knew  noth- 
ing then.  Perhaps  Johnnie  would  write  to  her  softly 
from  some  gay  seaside  resort  where  he  and  his  leman 
were  hiding  their  strong  passion.  The  episode  was 
shocking;  it  was  ruinous.  The  pair  could  never  re- 
turn. Even  Johnnie  alone  would  never  dare  to  return. 

"He  was  a  friend  of  yours,  was  he  not?"  asked 
Auntie  Hamps  in  bland  sorrow  of  Tertius  Ingpen. 

He  was  a  friend,  and  a  close  friend,  of  all  three  of 
them.  And  not  only  had  he  outraged  their  feelings — 
he  had  shamed  them,  irretrievably  lowered  their  pres- 
tige. They  could  not  look  Auntie  Hamps  in  the  face. 
But  Auntie  Hamps  could  look  them  in  the  face.  And 
her  glance,  charged  with  grief  and  with  satisfaction, 
said:  "How  are  the  mighty  fallen,  with  their  jaunty 
parade  of  irreligion,  and  their  musical  evenings  on 
Sundays,  with  the  windows  open  while  folks  are  com- 
ing home  from  chapel !"  And  there  could  be  no  retort. 

"Another  good  man  ruined  by  women!"  observed 
Tertius  Ingpen,  with  a  sigh,  stroking  his  beard. 

Hilda  sprang  up;  and  all  her  passionate  sympathy 
for  Janet,  and  her  disappointment  and  disgust  with 
Johnnie,  the  victim  of  desire,  and  her  dissatisfaction 
with  her  husband  and  her  hatred  of  Auntie  Hamps, 
blazed  forth  and  devastated  the  unwise  Ingpen  as  she 
scathingly  replied: 

"Mr.  Ingpen,  that  is  a  caddish  thing  to  say !" 

She  despised  convention;  she  was  frankly  and  atro- 
ciously rude;  and  she  did  not  care.  Edwin  blushed. 
Tertius  Ingpen  blushed. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Ingpen,  keeping  his  temper.  "I 
think  I  ought  to  have  left  a  little  earlier.  Good-bye, 
Ed.  Mrs.  Hamps — "  He  bowed  with  extreme  urban- 
ity to  the  ladies,  and  departed. 

Shortly   afterwards   Auntie   Hamps   also   departed, 


LITHOGRAPHY 

saying  that  she  must  not  be  late  for  tea  at  dear 
Clara's.  She  was  secretly  panting  to  disclose  the  whole 
situation  to  dear  Clara.  What  a  scene  had  Clara 
missed  by  leaving  the  works  too  soon! 


CHAPTER    XII 

DARTMOOR 


"WHAT  was  that  telegram  you  had  this  afternoon, 
Hilda?" 

The  question  was  on  Edwin's  tongue  as  he  walked 
up  Acre  Lane  from  the  works  by  his  wife's  side.  But 
it  did  not  achieve  utterance.  A  year  had  passed  since 
he  last  walked  up  Acre  Lane  with  Hilda;  and  now  of 
course  he  recalled  the  anger  of  that  previous  prome- 
nade. In  the  interval  he  had  acquired  to  some  extent 
the  habit  of  containing  his  curiosity  and  his  criticism. 
In  the  interval  he  had  triumphed,  but  Hilda  also  had 
consolidated  her  position,  so  that  despite  the  increase 
of  his  prestige  she  was  still  his  equal;  she  seemed  to 
take  strength  from  him  in  order  to  maintain  the  strug- 
gle against  him. 

During  the  final  half-hour  at  the  works  the  great, 
the  enormous  problem  in  his  mind  had  been  —  not 
whether  such  and  such  a  plan  of  action  for  Janet's  wel- 
fare in  a  very  grave  crisis  would  be  advisable,  but 
whether  he  should  demand  an  explanation  from  Hilda 
of  certain  disquieting  phenomena  in  her  boudoir.  In 
the  excitement  of  his  indecision  Janet's  tragic  case 
scarcely  affected  his  sensibility.  For  about  twelve 
months  Hilda  had,  he  knew,  been  intermittently  carry- 
ing on  a  correspondence  as  to  which  she  had  said  no 
word  to  him;  she  did  not  precisely  conceal  it,  but  she 
failed  to  display  it.  Lately,  so  far  as  his  observation 

242 


DARTMOOR  243 

went,  it  had  ceased.  And  then  to-day  he  had  caught 
sight  of  an  orange  telegraph-envelope  in  her  waste- 
paper  basket.  Alone  in  the  boudoir,  and  glancing  back 
cautiously  and  guiltily  at  the  door,  he  had  picked  up 
the  little  ball  of  paper  and  smoothed  it  out,  and  read 
the  words :  "Mrs.  Edwin  Clayhanger."  In  those  days 
the  wives  of  even  prominent  business  men  did  not  cus- 
tomarily receive  such  a  rain  of  telegrams  that  the  de- 
livery of  a  telegram  would  pass  unmentioned  and  be 
forgotten.  On  the  contrary,  the  delivery  of  a  telegram 
was  an  event  in  a  woman's  life.  The  telegram  which 
he  had  detected  might  have  been  innocently  negligible, 
in  forty  different  ways.  It  might,  for  example,  have 
been  from  Janet,  or  about  a  rehearsal  of  the  Choral 
Society,  or  from  a  tradesman  at  Oldcastle,  or  about 
rooms  at  the  seaside.  But  supposing  that  it  was  not 
innocently  negligible?  Supposing  that  she  was  keep- 
ing a  secret?  .  .  .  What  secret?  What  conceivable 
secret?  He  could  conceive  no  secret.  Yes,  he  could 
conceive  a  secret.  He  had  conceived  and  did  conceive 
a  secret,  and  his  private  thoughts  elaborated  it.  ... 
He  had  said  to  himself  at  the  works:  "I  may  ask 
her  as  we  go  home.  I  shall  see."  But,  out  in  the 
street,  with  the  disturbing  sense  of  her  existence  over 
his  shoulder,  he  knew  that  he  should  not  ask  her. 
Partly  timidity  and  partly  pride  kept  him  from  asking. 
He  knew  that,  as  a  wise  husband,  he  ought  to  ask. 
He  knew  that  commonsense  was  not  her  strong- 
est quality,  and  that  by  diffidence  he  might  be  inviting 
unguessed  future  trouble;  but  he  would  not  ask.  In 
the  great,  passionate  war  of  marriage  they  would  draw 
thus  apart,  defensive  and  watchful,  rushing  together  at 
intervals  either  to  fight  or  to  kiss.  The  heat  of  their 
kisses  had  not  cooled ;  but  to  him  at  any  rate  the  kisses 
often  seemed  intensely  illogical;  for,  though  he  re- 


THESE  TWAIN 

garded  himself  as  an  improving  expert  in  the  science 
of  life,  he  had  not  yet  begun  to  perceive  that  those 
kisses  were  the  only  true  logic  of  their  joint  career. 

He  was  conscious  of  grievances  against  her  as  they 
walked  up  Acre  Lane,  but  instead  of  being  angrily 
resentful,  he  was  content  judicially  to  register  the 
grievances  as  further  corroboration  of  his  estimate 
of  her  character.  They  were  walking  up  Acre  Lane 
solely  because  Hilda  was  Hilda.  A  year  ago  they 
had  walked  up  Acre  Lane  in  order  that  Edwin  might 
call  at  the  shop.  But  Acre  Lane  was  by  no  means 
on  the  shortest  way  from  Shawport  to  Bleakridge. 
Hilda,  however,  on  emerging  from  the  works,  full  of 
trouble  concerning  Janet,  had  suddenly  had  the  beau- 
tiful idea  of  buying  some  fish  for  tea.  In  earlier  days 
he  would  have  said:  "How  accidental  you  are!  What 
would  have  happened  to  our  tea  if  you  hadn't  been 
down  here,  or  if  you  hadn't  by  chance  thought  of  fish?" 
He  would  have  tried  to  show  her  that  her  activities 
were  not  based  in  the  principles  of  reason,  and  that 
even  the  composition  of  meals  ought  not  to  depend 
upon  the  hazard  of  an  impulse.  Now,  wiser,  he  said 
not  a  word.  He  resigned  himself  in  silence  to  an  extra 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  of  walking.  In  such  matters, 
where  her  deep  instinctiveness  came  into  play,  she  had 
established  over  him  a  definite  ascendancy. 

Then  another  grievance  was  that  she  had  sent  George 
to  Hanbridge,  knowing  that  George,  according  to  a 
solemn  family  engagement,  ought  to  have  been  at  the 
works.  She  was  conscienceless.  A  third  grievance, 
naturally,  was  her  behaviour  to  Ingpen.  And  a  fourth 
came  back  again  to  George.  Why  had  she  sent  George 
to  Hanbridge  at  all?  Was  it  not  to  despatch  a  tele- 
gram which  she  was  afraid  to  submit  to  the  inquisitive- 
ness  of  the  Post  Office  at  Bursley?  A  daring  supposi- 


DARTMOOR  245 

tion,  but  plausible;  and  if  correct,  of  what  duplicity 
was  she  not  guilty !  The  mad,  shameful  episode  of 
Johnnie  Orgreave,  the  awful  dilemma  of  Janet — colos- 
sal affairs  though  they  were — interested  him  less  and 
less  as  he  grew  more  and  more  preoccupied  with  his 
relations  to  Hilda.  And  he  thought,  not  caring: 

"Something  terrific  will  occur  between  us,  one  of 
these  days." 

And  then  his  bravado  would  turn  to  panic. 


They  passed  along  Wedgwood  Street,  and  Hilda 
preceded  him  into  the  chief  poulterer-and-fishmonger's. 
Here  was  another  slight  grievance  of  Edwin's ;  for  the 
chief  poulterer-and-fishmonger's  happened  now  to  be 
the  Clayh anger  shop  at  the  corner  of  Wedgwood 
Street  and  Duck  Bank.  Positively  there  had  been  com- 
petitors for  the  old  location !  Why  should  Hilda  go 
there  and  drag  him  there?  Could  she  not  comprehend 
that  he  had  a  certain  fine  delicacy  about  entering? 
.  .  .  The  place  where  the  former  sign  had  been  was 
plainly  visible  on  the  brickwork  above  the  shop-front. 
Rabbits,  fowl,  and  a  few  brace  of  grouse  hung  in  the 
right-hand  window,  from  which  most  of  the  glass  had 
been  removed ;  and  in  the  left,  upon  newly-embedded 
slabs  of  Sicilian  marble,  lay  amid  ice  the  curved  forms 
of  many  fish,  and  behind  them  was  the  fat  white- 
sleeved  figure  of  the  chief  poulterer-and-fishmonger's 
wife  with  her  great,  wet  hands.  He  was  sad.  He 
seriously  thought  yet  again:  "Things  are  not  what 
they  were  in  this  town,  somehow."  For  this  place  had 
once  been  a  printer's;  and  he  had  a  conviction  that 
printing  was  an  aristocrat  among  trades.  Indeed,  could 
printing  and  fishmongering  be  compared  ? 


246  THESE  TWAIN 

The  saleswoman  greeted  them  with  deference,  calling 
Edwin  "sir,"  and  yet  with  a  certain  complacent  famil- 
iarity, as  an  occupant  to  ex-occupants.  Edwin  casu- 
ally gave  the  short  shake  of  the  head  which  in  the 
district  may  signify  "Good-day,"  and  turned,  hum- 
ming, to  look  at  the  hanging  game.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  only  keep  his  dignity  as  a  man  of  the 
world  by  looking  at  the  grouse  with  a  connoisseur's 
eye.  Why  didn't  Hilda  buy  grouse?  The  shop  was  a 
poor  little  interior.  It  smelt  ill.  He  wondered  what 
the  upper  rooms  were  like,  and  what  had  happened  to 
the  decrepit  building  at  the  end  of  the  yard.  The 
saleswoman  slapped  the  fish  about  on  the  marble,  and 
running  water  could  be  heard. 

"Edwin,"  said  Hilda,  with  enchanting  sweetness  and 
simplicity,  "would  you  like  hake  or  turbot,  dear?" 

Impossible  to  divine  from  her  voice  that  the  ruin  of 
their  two  favourite  Orgreaves  was  complete,  that  she 
was  conducting  a  secret  correspondence,  and  that  she 
had  knowingly  and  deliberately  offended  her  husband! 

Both  women  waited,  moveless,  for  the  decision,  as 
for  an  august  decree. 

When  the  transaction  was  finished,  the  saleswoman 
handed  over  the  parcel  into  Hilda's  gloved  hands ;  it 
was  a  rough-and-ready  parcel,  not  at  all  like  the  neat 
stiff  paper-bag  of  the  modern  age. 

"Very  hot,  isn't  it,  ma'am?"  said  the  saleswoman. 

And  Hilda,  utterly  distinguished  in  gesture  and 
tone,  replied  with  calm,  impartial  urbanity: 

"Very.     Good  afternoon." 

"I'd  better  take  that  thing,"  said  Edwin  outside,  in 
spite  of  himself. 

She  gave  up  the  parcel  to  him. 

"Tell  cook  to  fry  it,"  said  Hilda.  "She  always 
fries  better  than  she  boils." 


DARTMOOR  247 

He  repeated: 

"  'Tell  cook  to  fry  it.'  What's  up  now?"  His  tone 
challenged. 

"I  must  go  over  and  see  Janet  at  once.  I  shall  take 
the  next  car." 

He  lifted  the  end  of  his  nose  in  disgust.  There  was 
no  end  to  the  girl's  caprices. 

"Why  at  once?"  the  superior  male  demanded.  Dis- 
dain and  resentment  were  in  his  voice.  Hundreds  of 
times,  when  alone,  he  had  decided  that  he  would  never 
use  that  voice — first,  because  it  was  unworthy  of  a 
philosopher,  second,  because  it  never  achieved  any 
good  result,  and  third,  because  it  often  did  harm.  Yet 
he  would  use  it.  The  voice  had  an  existence  and  a 
volition  of  its  own  within  his  being;  he  marvelled  that 
the  essential  mechanism  of  life  should  be  so  clumsy  and 
inefficient.  He  heard  the  voice  come  out,  and  yet  was 
not  displeased,  was  indeed  rather  pleasantly  excited. 
A  new  grievance  had  been  created  for  him;  he  might 
have  ignored  it,  just  as  he  might  ignore  a  solitary 
cigarette  lying  in  his  cigarette  case.  Both  cigarettes 
and  grievances  were  bad  for  him.  But  he  could  not 
ignore  them.  The  last  cigarette  in  the  case  mag- 
netised him.  Useless  to  argue  with  himself  that  he  had 
already  smoked  more  than  enough, — the  cigarette  had 
to  emerge  from  the  case  and  be  burnt;  and  the  griev- 
ance too  was  irresistible.  In  an  instant  he  had  it 
between  his  teeth  and  was  darkly  enjoying  it.  Of 
course  Hilda's  passionate  pity  for  Janet  was  a  fine 
thing.  Granted!  But  therein  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  let  it  run  away  with  her.  The  worst  of 
these  capricious,  impulsive  creatures  was  that  they 
could  never  do  anything  fine  without  an  enormous  fuss 
and  upset.  What  possible  difference  would  it  make 
whether  Hilda  went  to  break  the  news  of  disaster  to 


248  THESE  TWAIN 

Janet  at  once  or  in  an  hour's  time?  The  mere  desire 
to  protect  and  assuage  could  not  properly  furnish  an 
excuse  for  unnecessarily  dislocating  a  household  and 
depriving  oneself  of  food.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
wiser  and  more  truly  kind  to  take  one's  meals  regu- 
larly in  a  crisis.  But  Hilda  would  never  appreciate 
that  profound  truth — never,  never! 

Moreover,  it  was  certain  that  Johnnie  had  written 
to  Janet. 

"I  feel  I  must  go  at  once,"  said  Hilda. 

He  spoke  with  more  marked  scorn: 

"And  what  about  your  tea?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  about  my  tea." 

"Of  course  it  matters  about  your  tea.  If  you  have 
your  tea  quietly,  you'll  find  the  end  of  the  world  won't 
have  come,  and  you  can  go  and  see  Janet  just  the 
same,  and  the  whole  house  won't  have  been  turned  up- 
side down." 

She  put  her  lips  together  and  smiled  mysteriously, 
saying  nothing.  The  racket  of  the  Hanbridge  and 
Knype  steam-car  could  be  heard  behind  them.  She 
did  not  turn  her  head.  The  car  overtook  them,  and 
then  stopped  a  few  yards  in  front.  But  she  did  not 
hail  the  conductor.  The  car  went  onwards. 

He  had  won.  His  argument  had  been  so  convincing 
that  she  could  not  help  being  convinced.  It  was  too 
powerful  for  even  her  obstinacy,  which  as  a  rule  suc- 
cessfully defied  any  argument  whatever. 

Did  he  smile  and  forgive?  Did  he  extend  to  her 
the  blessing  of  his  benevolence?  No.  He  could  not 
have  brought  himself  to  such  a  point.  After  all,  she 
had  done  nothing  to  earn  approval;  she  had  simply 
refrained  from  foolishness.  She  had  had  to  be  re- 
minded of  considerations  which  ought  ever  to  have 
been  present  in  her  brain.  Doubtless  she  thought  that 


DARTMOOR  249 

he  was  hard,  that  he  was  incapable  of  her  divine  pity 
for  Janet.  But  that  was  only  because  she  could  not 
imagine  a  combination  of  emotional  generosity  and 
calm  commonsense;  and  she  never  would  be  able  to 
imagine  it.  Hence  she  would  always  be  unjust  to  him. 

When  they  arrived  home,  she  was  still  smiling  mys- 
teriously to  herself.  She  did  not  take  her  hat  off — 
sign  of  disturbance!  He  moved  with  careful  tran- 
quillity through  the  ritual  that  preceded  tea.  He  could 
feel  her  in  the  house,  ordering  it,  softening  it,  civilising 
it.  He  could  smell  the  fish.  He  could  detect  the 
subservience  of  Ada  to  her  mistress's  serious  mood. 
He  went  into  the  dining-room.  Ada  followed  him  with 
a  tray  of  hot  things.  Hilda  followed  Ada.  Then 
George  entered,  cleaner  than  ordinary.  Edwin 
savoured  deeply  the  functioning  of  his  home.  And  his 
wife  had  yielded.  Her  instinct  had  compelled  her  not 
to  neglect  him ;  his  sagacity  had  mastered  her.  In  her 
heart  she  must  admire  his  sagacity,  whatever  she  said 
or  looked,  and  her  unreasoning  passion  for  him  was 
still  the  paramount  force  in  her  vitality. 

"Now,  are  you  two  all  right?"  said  Hilda,  when 
she  had  poured  out  the  tea,  and  Edwin  was  carving 
the  fish. 

Edwin  glanced  up. 

"I  don't  want  any  tea,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't 
touch  it." 

She  bent  and  kissed  George,  took  her  gloves  from 
the  sideboard,  and  left  the  house,  the  mysterious  smile 
still  on  her  face. 


m 

Edwin  controlled  his  vexation  at  this  dramatic  move. 
It  was   only   slight,   and  he   had   to   play   the   serene 


250  THESE  TWAIN 

omniscient  to  George.  Further,  the  attractive  food 
helped  to  make  him  bland. 

"Didn't  you  know  your  mother  had  to  go  out?"  said 
Edwin,  with  astounding  guile. 

"Yes,  she  told  me  upstairs,"  George  murmured, 
"while  she  was  washing  me.  She  said  she  had  to  go 
and  see  Auntie  Janet  again." 

The  reply  was  a  blow  to  Edwin.  She  had  said  noth- 
ing to  him,  but  she  had  told  the  boy.  Still,  his  com- 
placency was  not  overset.  Boy  and  stepfather  began 
to  talk,  with  the  mingled  freedom  and  constraint  prac- 
tised by  males  accustomed  to  the  presence  of  a  woman, 
when  the  woman  is  absent.  Each  was  aware  of  the 
stress  of  a  novel,  mysterious,  and  grave  situation. 
Each  also  thought  of  the  woman,  and  each  knew  that 
the  other  was  thinking  of  the  woman.  Each,  over  a 
serious  apprehension,  seemed  to  be  lightly  saying :  "It's 
rather  fun  to  be  without  her  for  a  bit.  But  we  must  be 
able  to  rely  on  her  return."  Nothing  stood '  between 
them  and  domestic  discomfort.  Possible  stupidity  in 
the  kitchen  had  no  check.  As  regards  the  mere  house- 
hold machine,  they  had  a  ridiculous  and  amusing  sense 
of  distant  danger. 

Edwin  had  to  get  up  in  order  to  pour  out  more  tea. 
He  reckoned  that  he  could  both  make  tea  and  pour  it 
out  with  more  exactitude  than  his  wife,  who  often 
forgot  to  put  the  milk  in  first.  But  he  could  not  pour 
it  out  with  the  same  grace.  His  brain,  not  his  heart, 
poured  the  tea  out.  He  left  the  tray  in  disorder.  The 
symmetry  of  the  table  was  soon  wrecked. 

"Glad  you're  going  back  to  school,  I  suppose?"  said 
Edwin  satirically. 

George  nodded.  He  was  drinking,  and  he  glanced 
at  Edwin  over  the  rim  of  the  cup.  He  had  grown 
much  in  twelve  months,  and  was  more  than  twelve 


DARTMOOR  251 

months  older.  Edwin  was  puzzled  by  the  almost  sud- 
den developments  of  his  intelligence.  Sometimes  the 
boy  was  just  like  a  young  man;  his  voice  had  become 
a  little  uncertain.  He  still  showed  the  greatest  con- 
tempt for  his  fingernails,  but  he  had  truly  discovered 
the  toothbrush,  and  was  preaching  it  at  school  among 
a  population  that  scoffed  yet  was  impressed. 

"Yes,  I'm  glad,"  he  answered. 

"Oh!     You're   glad,   are  you?" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  in  a  way.  A  boy  does  have  to  go 
to  school,  doesn't  he,  uncle?  And  the  sooner  it's  over 
the  better.  I  tell  you  what  I  should  like — I  should 
like  to  go  to  school  night  and  day  and  have  no  holi- 
days till  it  was  all  done.  I  sh'd  think  you  could  save  at 
least  three  years  with  that." 

"A  bit  hard  on  the  masters,  wouldn't  it  be?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  Of  course  it  would  never 
be  over  for  them.  I  expect  they'd  gradually  die." 

"Then  you  don't  like  school?" 

George  shook  his  head. 

"Did  you  like  school,  uncle?" 

Edwin  shook  his  head.     They  both  laughed. 

"Uncle,  can  I  leave  school  when  I'm  sixteen?" 

"I've  told  you  once." 

"Yes,  I  -know.  But  did  you  mean  it?  People 
change  so." 

"I  told  you  you  could  leave  school  when  you're  six- 
teen if  you  pass  the  London  Matric." 

"But  what  good's  the  London  Matric  to  an  archi- 
tect? Mr.  Orgreave  says  it  isn't  any  gocd,  any- 
way." 

"When  did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"Yesterday." 

"But  not  so  long  since  you  were  all  for  being  a  stock- 
breeder!" 


THESE  TWAIN 

"Ah!  I  was  only  pretending  to  myself!"  George 
smiled. 

"Well,  fetch  me  my  cigarettes  off  the  mantelpiece 
in  the  drawing-room." 

The  boy  ran  off,  eager  to  serve,  and  Edwin's  glance 
followed  him  with  affection.  George's  desire  to  be 
an  architect  had  consistently  strengthened,  save  dur- 
ing a  brief  period  when  the  Show  of  the  North  Staf- 
fordshire Agricultural  Society,  held  with  much  splen- 
dour at  Hanbridge,  had  put  another  idea  into  his 
noddle — an  idea  that  fed  itself  richly  on  glorious  bulls 
and  other  prize  cattle  for  about  a  week,  and  then 
expired.  Indeed,  already  it  had  been  in  a  kind  of 
way  arranged  that  the  youth  should  ultimately  be 
articled  to  Johnnie  Orgreave.  Among  many  conse- 
quences of  Johnnie's  defiance  to  society  would  prob- 
ably be  the  quashing  of  that  arrangement.  And  there 
was  Johnnie,  on  the  eve  of  his  elopement,  chatting  to 
George  about  the  futility  of  the  London  Matricula- 
tion! Edwin  wondered  how  George  would  gradually 
learn  what  had  happened  to  his  friend  and  inspirer, 
John  Orgreave. 

He  arrived  with  the  cigarettes,  and  offered  them,  and 
lit  the  match,  and  offered  that. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all 
afternoon?"  Edwin  enquired,  between  puffs  of  smoke. 

"Oh,  nothing  much !" 

"I  thought  you  were  coming  to  the  works  and  then 
going  down  to  Auntie  Clara's  for  tea." 

"So  I  was.     But  mother  sent  me  to  Hanbridge." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Edwin  casually.  "So  your  mother 
packed  you  off  to  Hanbridge,  did  she?" 

"I  had  to  go  to  the  Post  Office,"  George  continued. 
"I  think  it  was  a  telegram,  but  it  was  in  an  envelope, 
and  some  money." 


DARTMOOR  253 

"7/ideed!"  said  Edwin,  with  a  very  indifferent  air. 

He  was,  however,  so  affected  that  he  jumped  up 
abruptly  from  the  table,  and  went  into  the  darkening, 
chill  garden,  ignoring  George.  George,  accustomed 
to  these  sudden  accessions  of  interest  and  these  sudden 
forgettings,  went  unperturbed  his  ways. 

About  half  past  eight  Hilda  returned.  Edwin  was 
closing  the  curtains  in  the  drawing-room.  The  gas 
had  been  lighted. 

"Johnnie  has  evidently  written  to  Alicia,"  she  burst 
out  somewhat  breathless.  "Because  Alicia's  tele- 
graphed to  Janet  that  she  must  positively  go  straight 
down  there  and  stay  with  them  when  she  leaves  the 
Home." 

"What,  on  Dartmoor?"  Edwin  muttered,  in  a  strange 
voice.  The  very  word  "Dartmoor"  made  him  shake. 

"It  isn't  actually  on  the  moor,"  said  Hilda.  "And 
so  I  shall  take  her  down  myself.  I've  told  her  all 
about  things.  She  wasn't  a  bit  surprised.  They're  a 
strange  lot." 

She  tried  to  speak  quite  naturally,  but  he  knew  that 
she  was  not  succeeding.  Their  eyes  would  not  meet. 
Edwin  thought: 

"How  far  away  we  are  from  this  morning !"  Hazard 
and  fate,  like  converging  armies,  seemed  to  be  closing 
upon  him. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  DEPARTURE 


IT  was  a  wet  morning.  Hilda,  already  in  full  street 
attire,  save  for  her  gloves,  and  with  a  half  empty  cup 
of  tea  by  her  side,  sat  at  the  desk  in  the  boudoir. 
She  unlocked  the  large  central  drawer  immediately  be- 
low the  flap  of  the  desk,  with  a  peculiar,  quick,  ruth- 
less gesture,  which  gesture  produced  a  very  short 
snappy  click  that  summed  up  all  the  tension  spreading 
from  Hilda's  mind  throughout  the  house  and  even  into 
the  town.  It  had  been  decided  that  in  order  to  call 
for  Janet  at  the  Nursing  Home  and  catch  the  Crewe 
train  at  Knype  for  the  Bristol  and  Southwest  of 
England  connexion,  Hilda  must  leave  the  house  at 
five  minutes  to  nine. 

This  great  fact  was  paramount  in  the  minds  of 
various  people  besides  Hilda.  Ada  upstairs  stood  bent 
and  flushed  over  a  huge  portmanteau  into  which  she 
was  putting  the  last  things,  while  George  hindered 
her  by  simultaneously  tying  to  the  leather  handle  a 
wet  label  finely  directed  by  himself  in  architectural 
characters.  The  cook  in  the  kitchen  was  preparing  the 
master's  nine  o'clock  breakfast  with  new  solicitudes 
caused  by  a  serious  sense  of  responsibility;  for  Hilda, 
having  informed  her  in  moving  tones  that  the  master's 
welfare  in  the  mistress's  absence  would  depend  finally 
on  herself,  had  solemnly  entrusted  that  welfare  to  her 
— had  almost  passed  it  to  her  from  hand  to  hand,  with 

254 


THE  DEPARTURE  255 

precautions,  like  a  jewel  in  a  casket.  Ada,  it  may  be 
said,  had  immediately  felt  the  weight  of  the  cook's 
increased  importance.  Edwin  and  the  clerks  at  the 
works  knew  that  Edwin  had  to  be  home  for  breakfast 
at  a  quarter  to  nine  instead  of  nine,  and  that  he  must 
not  be  late,  as  Mrs.  Clayhanger  had  a  train  to  catch, 
and  accordingly  the  morning's  routine  of  the  office 
was  modified.  And,  finally,  a  short  old  man  in  a  rainy 
stable-yard  in  Acre  Parade,  between  Acre  Lane  and 
Oldcastle  Street,  struggling  to  force  a  collar  over  the 
head  of  a  cab-horse  that  towered  above  his  own  head, 
was  already  blasphemously  excited  by  those  pessimistic 
apprehensions  about  the  flight  of  time  which  forty 
years  of  train-catching  had  never  sufficed  to  allay  in 
him.  As  for  Janet,  she  alone  in  her  weakness  and 
her  submissiveness  was  calm;  the  nurse  and  Hilda 
understood  one  another,  and  she  was  "leaving  it  all" 
to  them. 

Hilda  opened  the  drawer,  half  lifting  the  flap  of 
the  desk  to  disclose  its  contents.  It  was  full  of  odd 
papers,  letters,  bills,  blotting-paper,  door-knobs,  finger- 
plates, envelopes,  and  a  small  book  or  two.  A  preju- 
diced observer,  such  as  Edwin,  might  have  said  that 
the  drawer  was  extremely  untidy.  But  to  Hilda,  who 
had  herself  put  in  each  item  separately,  and  each  for 
a  separate  reason,  the  drawer  was  not  untidy,  for  her 
intelligence  knew  the  plan  of  it,  and  every  item  as  it 
caught  her  eye  suggested  a  justifying  reason,  and  a 
good  one.  Nevertheless,  she  formed  an  intention  to 
"tidy  out"  the  drawer  (the  only  drawer  in  the  desk 
with  a  safe  lock),  upon  her  return  home.  She  felt 
at  the  back  of  the  drawer,  drew  forth  the  drawer  a 
little  further,  and  felt  again,  vainly.  A  doubt  of  her 
own  essential  orderliness  crossed  her  mind.  "Surely 
I  can't  have  put  those  letters  anywhere  else?  Surely 


256  THESE  TWAIN 

I've  not  mislaid  them?"  Then  she  closed  the  flap  of 
the  desk,  and  pulled  the  drawer  right  out,  letting  it 
rest  on  her  knees.  Yes,  the  packet  was  there,  hidden, 
and  so  was  another  packet  of  letters — in  the  hand- 
writing of  Edwin.  She  was  reassured.  She  knew  she 
was  tidy,  had  always  been  tidy.  And  Edwin's  innuen- 
dos  to  the  contrary  were  inexcusable.  Jerking  the 
drawer  irregularly  back  by  force  into  its  place,  she 
locked  it,  reopened  the  desk,  laid  the  packet  on  the 
writing-pad,  and  took  a  telegram  from  her  purse  to 
add  to  the  letters  in  the  packet. 

The  letters  were  all  in  the  same  loose,  sloping 
hand,  and  on  the  same  tinted  notepaper.  The 
signature  was  plain  on  one  of  them,  "Charlotte  M. 
Cannon,"  and  then  after  it,  in  brackets  "(Canonges)," 
— the  latter  being  the  real  name  of  George  Cannon's 
French  father,  and  George  Cannon's  only  legal  name. 
The  topmost  letter  began:  "Dear  Madam,  I  think  it 
is  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  my  husband  still  de- 
clares his  innocence  of  the  crime  for  which  he  is  now 
in  prison.  He  requests  that  you  shallbe  informed  of 
this.  I  ought  perhaps  to  tell  you  that,  since  the  change 
in  my  religious  convictions,  my  feelings — "  The  first 
page  ended  there.  Hilda  turned  the  letters  over,  pre- 
occupied, gazing  at  them  and  deciphering  chance 
phrases  here  and  there.  The  first  letter  was  dated 
about  a  year  earlier;  it  constituted  the  beginning  of 
the  resuscitation  of  just  that  part  of  her  life  which 
she  had  thought  to  be  definitely  interred  in  memory. 

Hilda  had  only  once — and  on  a  legal  occasion — met 
Mrs.  Canonges  (as  with  strict  correctness  she  called 
herself  in  brackets) — a  surprisingly  old  lady,  with 
quite  white  hair,  and  she  had  thought :  "What  a  shame 
for  that  erotic  old  woman  to  have  bought  and  mar- 
ried a  man  so  much  younger  than  herself !  No  won- 


THE  DEPARTURE  257 

der  he  ran  away  from  her !"  She  had  been  positively 
shocked  by  the  spectacle  of  the  well-dressed,  well- 
behaved,  quiet-voiced,  prim,  decrepit  creature  with  her 
aristocratic  voice.  And  her  knowledge  of  the  possibili- 
ties of  human  nature  was  thenceforth  enlarged.  And 
when  George  Cannon  (known  to  the  law  only  as  Ca- 
nonges)  had  received  two  years'  hard  labour  for  going 
through  a  ceremony  of  marriage  with  herself,  she  had 
esteemed,  despite  all  her  resentment  against  him,  that 
his  chief  sin  lay  in  his  real  first  marriage,  not  in  his 
false  second  one,  and  that  for  that  sin  the  old  woman 
was  the  more  deserving  of  punishment.  And  when 
the  old  woman  had  with  strange  naivete  written  to 
say  that  she  had  become  a  convert  to  Roman  Catholi- 
cism and  that  her  marriage  and  her  imprisoned  biga- 
mous husband  were  henceforth  to  her  sacred,  Hilda 
had  reflected  sardonically:  "Of  course  it  is  always 
that  sort  of  woman  that  turns  to  religion,  when  she's 
too  old  for  anything  else!"  And  when  the  news  came 
that  her  deceiver  had  got  ten  years'  penal  servitude 
(and  might  have  got  penal  servitude  for  life)  for  utter- 
ing a  forged  Bank-of-England  note,  Hilda  had 
reflected  in  the  same  strain:  "Of  course,  a  man  who 
would  behave  as  George  behaved  to  me  would  be  just 
the  man  to  go  about  forging  bank  notes !  I  am  not 
in  the  least  astonished.  What  an  inconceivable  simple- 
ton I  was !" 

A  very  long  time  had  elapsed  before  the  letter  ar- 
rived bearing  the  rumour  of  Cannon's  innocence.  It 
had  not  immediately  produced  much  effect  on  her 
mind.  She  had  said  not  a  word  to  Edwin.  The  idea 
of  reviving  the  shames  of  that  early  episode  in  con- 
versation with  Edwin  was  extremely  repugnant  to  her. 
She  would  not  do  it.  She  had  not  the  right  to  do  it. 
All  her  proud  independence  forbade  her  to  do  it.  The 


258  THESE  TWAIN 

episode  idid  not  concern  Edwin.  The  effect  on  her  of 
the  rumour  came  gradually.  It  was  increased  when 
Mrs.  Cannon  wrote  of  evidence,  a  petition  to  the  Home 
Secretary,  and  employing  a  lawyer.  Mrs.  Cannon's 
attitude  seemed  to  say  to  Hilda:  "You  and  I  have 
shared  this  man,  we  alone  in  all  the  world."  Mrs. 
Cannon  seemed  to  imagine  that  Hilda  would  be  inter- 
ested. She  was  right.  Hilda  was  interested.  Her 
implacability  relented.  Her  vindictiveness  forgave. 
She  pondered  with  almost  intolerable  compassion  upon 
the  vision  of  George  Cannon  suffering  unjustly  month 
after  long  month  interminably  the  horrors  of  a  con- 
vict's existence.  She  read  with  morbidity  reports  of 
Assizes,  and  picked  up  from  papers  and  books  and 
from  Mrs.  Cannon  pieces  of  information  about  prisons. 
When  he  was  transferred  to  Parkhurst  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight  on  account  of  ill-health,  she  was  glad,  because 
she  knew  that  Parkhurst  was  less  awful  than  Port- 
land, and  when  from  Parkhurst  he  was  sent  to  Dart- 
moor she  tried  to  hope  that  the  bracing  air  would  do 
him  good.  She  no  longer  thought  of  him  as  a  criminal 
at  all,  but  simply  as  one  victim  of  his  passion  for 
herself;  she,  Hilda,  had  been  the  other  victim.  She 
raged  in  secret  against  the  British  Judicature,  its  de- 
lays, its  stoniness,  its  stupidity.  And  when  the  princi- 
pal witness  in  support  of  Cannon's  petition  died,  she 
raged  against  fate.  The  movement  for  Cannon's  re- 
lease slackened  for  months.  Of  late  it  had  been  re- 
sumed, and  with  hopefulness.  One  of  Cannon's  com- 
panions had  emerged  from  confinement  (due  to  an 
unconnected  crime),  and  was  ready  to  swear  affidavits. 
Lastly,  Mrs.  Cannon  had  written  stating  that  she 
was  almost  beggared,  and  suggesting  that  Hilda  should 
lend  her  ten  pounds  towards  the  expenses  of  the  affair. 
Hilda  had  not  ten  pounds.  That  very  day  Hilda, 


THE  DEPARTURE  259 

seeing  Janet  "in  the  Nursing  Home,  had  demanded: 
"I  say  Jan,  I  suppose  you  haven't  got  ten  pounds  you 
can  let  me  have  for  about  a  day  or  so?"  And  had 
laughed  self-consciously.  Janet,  flushing  with  eager 
pleasure,  had  replied :  "Of  course !  I've  still  got  that 
ten-pound  note  the  poor  old  dad  gave  me.  I've  always 
kept  it  in  case  the  worst  should  happen."  Janet  was 
far  too  affectionate  to  display  curiosity.  Hilda  had 
posted  the  bank-note  late  at  night.  The  next  day  had 
come  a  telegram  from  Mrs.  Cannon:  "Telegraph  if 
you  are  sending  money."  Not  for  a  great  deal  would 
Hilda  have  despatched  through  the  hands  of  the  old 
postmaster  at  Bursley — who  had  once  been  postmaster 
at  Turnhill  and  known  her  parents — a  telegram  such 
as  hers  addressed  to  anybody  named  "Cannon."  The 
fear  of  chatter  and  scandal  was  irrational,  but  it  was 
a  very  genuine  fear.  She  had  sent  her  faithful  George 
with  the  telegram  to  Hanbridge — it  was  just  as  easy. 

Hilda  now,  after  hesitation,  put  the  packet  of  letters 
in  her  handbag,  to  take  with  her.  It  was  a  precaution 
of  secrecy  which  she  admitted  to  be  unnecessary,  for 
she  was  quite  certain  that  Edwin  never  looked  into  her 
drawers ;  much  less  would  he  try  to  open  a  locked 
drawer;  his  incurious  confidence  in  her  was  in  some 
respects  almost  touching.  Certainly  nobody  else 
would  invade  the  drawer.  Still,  she  hid  the  letters  in 
her  handbag.  Then,  in  her  fashion,  she  scribbled  a 
bold-charactered  note  to  Mrs.  Cannon,  giving  a  tem- 
porary address,  and  this  also  she  put  in  the  handbag. 

Her  attitude  to  Mrs.  Cannon,  like  her  attitude  to  the 
bigamist,  had  slowly  changed,  and  she  thought  of  the 
old  woman  now  with  respect  and  sympathetic  sorrow. 
Mrs.  Cannon,  before  she  knew  that  Hilda  was  married 
to  Edwin,  had  addressed  her  first  letter  to  Hilda, 
"Mrs.  Cannon,"  when  she  would  have  been  justified  in 


260  THESE  TWAIN 

addressing  it,  "Miss  Lessways."  In  the  days  of  her 
boarding-house  it  had  been  impossible,  owing  to  busi- 
ness reasons,  for  Hilda  to  drop  the  name  to  which  she 
was  not  entitled  and  to  revert  to  her  own.  The  auth- 
entic Mrs.  Cannon,  despite  the  violence  of  her  griev- 
ances, had  respected  Hilda's  difficulty;  the  act  showed 
kindly  forbearance  and  it  had  aroused  Hilda's  imag- 
inative gratitude.  Further,  Mrs.  Cannon's  pertinacity 
in  the  liberation  proceedings,  and  her  calm,  logical 
acceptance  of  all  the  frightful  consequences  of  being 
the  legal  wife  of  a  convict,  had  little  by  little  impressed 
Hilda,  who  had  said  to  herself:  "There  is  something 
in  this  old  woman."  And  Hilda  nowadays  never  thought 
of  her  as  an  old  woman  who  had  been  perverse  and 
shameless  in  desire,  but  as  a  victim  of  passion  like 
George  Cannon.  She  said  to  herself:  "This  old 
woman  still  loves  George  Cannon;  her  love  was  the 
secret  of  her  rancour  against  him,  and  it  is  also  the 
secret  of  her  compassion."  These  constant  reflections, 
by  their  magnanimity,  and  their  insistence  upon  the 
tremendous  reality  of  love,  did  something  to  ennoble 
the  clandestine  and  demoralising  life  of  the  soul  which 
for  a  year  Hilda  had  hidden  from  her  husband  and 
from  everybody. 

n 

It  still  wanted  twenty  minutes  to  nine  o'clock.  She 
was  too  soon.  The  night  before,  Edwin  had  abraded 
her  sore  nerves  by  warning  her  not  to  be  late — in  a 
tone  that  implied  habitual  lateness  on  her  part.  Hilda 
was  convinced  that  she  was  an  exact  woman.  She 
might  be  late — a  little  late — six  times  together,  but 
as  there  was  a  sound  explanation  of  and  excuse  for 
each  shortcoming,  her  essential  exactitude  remained 
always  unimpaired  in  her  own  mind.  But  Edwin 


THE  DEPARTURE  261 

would  not  see  this.  He  told  her  now  and  then  that 
she  belonged  to  that  large  class  of  people  who  have 
the  illusion  that  a  clock  stands  still  at  the  last  moment 
while  last  things  are  being  done.  She  resented  the 
observation,  as  she  resented  many  of  Edwin's  assump- 
tions concerning  her.  Edwin  seemed  to  forget  that 
she  had  been  one  of  the  first  women-stenographers  in 
England,  that  she  had  been  a  journalist-secretary  and 
accustomed  to  correct  the  negligences  of  men  of  busi- 
ness, and  finally  that  she  had  been  in  business  by  her- 
self for  a  number  of  years.  Edwin  would  sweep  all 
that  away,  and  treat  her  like  one  of  your  mere  brain- 
less butterflies.  At  any  rate,  on  the  present  occasion 
she  was  not  late.  And  she  took  pride,  instead  of  shame, 
in  her  exaggerated  earliness.  She  had  the  air  of 
having  performed  a  remarkable  feat. 

She  left  the  boudoir  to  go  upstairs  and  superintend 
Ada,  though  she  had  told  the  impressed  Ada  that  she 
should  put  full  trust  in  her,  and  should  not  superintend 
her.  However,  as  she  opened  the  door  she  heard  the 
sounds  of  Ada  and  George  directing  each  other  in  the 
joint  enterprise  of  bringing  a  very  large  and  unwieldy 
portmanteau  out  of  the  bedroom.  The  hour  for  super- 
intendence was  therefore  past.  Hilda  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  idly,  nervously,  to  wait  till  the  port- 
manteau should  have  reached  the  hall.  The  French 
window  was  ajar,  and  a  wet  wind  entered  from  the 
garden.  The  garden  was  full  of  rain.  Two  workmen 
were  in  it,  employed  by  the  new  inhabitants  of  the 
home  of  the  Orgreaves.  Those  upstarts  had  decided 
that  certain  branches  of  the  famous  Orgreave  elms 
were  dangerous  and  must  be  cut,  and  the  workmen, 
shirt  sleeved  in  the  rain,  were  staying  one  of  the  elms 
with  a  rope  made  fast  to  the  swing  in  the  Clayhanger 
garden.  Hilda  was  unreasonably  but  sincerely  anti- 


262  THESE  TWAIN 

pathetic  to  her  new  neighbours.  The  white-ended 
stumps  of  great  elm-branches  made  her  feel  sick.  Use- 
less to  insist  to  her  on  the  notorious  treachery  of 
elms!  She  had  an  affection  for  those  elms,  and,  to 
her,  amputation  was  an  outrage.  The  upstarts  had 
committed  other  sacrilege  upon  the  house  and  grounds, 
not  heeding  that  the  abode  had  been  rendered  holy  by 
the  sacraments  of  fate.  Hilda  stared  and  stared  at 
the  rain.  And  the  prospect  of  the  long,  jolting, 
acutely  depressing  drive  through  the  mud  and  the  rain 
to  Knype  Vale,  and  of  the  interminable  train  journey 
with  a  tragic  convalescent,  braced  her. 

"Mother !" 

George  stood  behind  her. 

"Well,  have  you  got  the  luggage  down?9'  She 
frowned,  but  George  knew  her  nervous  frown  and  could 
rightly  interpret  it. 

He  nodded. 

"Ought  I  to  put  'Dartmoor'  on  the  luggage-label?" 

She  gave  a  negative  sign. 

Why  should  he  ask  such  a  question?  She  had 
never  breathed  the  name  of  Dartmoor.  Why  should 
he  mention  it?  Edwin  also  had  mentioned  Dart- 
moor. "What,  on  Dartmoor?"  Edwin  had  said.  Did 
Edwin  suspect  her  correspondence?  No.  Had  he 
suspected  he  would  have  spoken.  She  knew  him.  And 
even  if  Edwin  had  suspected,  George  could  not  con- 
ceivably have  had  suspicions,  of  any  sort.  .  .  .  There 
he  stood,  the  son  of  a  convict,  with  no  name  of  his 
own.  He  existed — because  she  and  the  convict  had 
been  unable  to  keep  apart;  his  ignorance  of  the  past 
was  appalling  to  think  of,  the  dangers  incident  to  it 
dreadful;  his  easy  confidence  before  the  world  affected 
her  almost  intolerably.  She  felt  that  she  could  never 
atone  to  him  for  having  borne  him. 


THE  DEPARTURE 

A  faint  noise  at  the  front-door  reached  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Here's  Nunks,"  exclaimed  George,  and  ran  off 
eagerly. 

This  was  his  new  name  for  his  stepfather. 

Hilda  returned  quickly  to  the  boudoir.  As  she 
disappeared  therein,  she  heard  George  descanting  to 
Edwin  on  the  beauties  of  his  luggage-label,  and  Edwin 
rubbing  his  feet  on  the  mat  and  removing  his  mackin- 
tosh. 

She  came  back  to  the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

"Edwin." 

"Hello!" 

"One  moment." 

He  came  into  the  boudoir,  wiping  the  rain  off  his 
face. 

"Shut  the  door,  will  you?" 

Her  earnest,  self-conscious  tone  stirred  into  activ- 
ity the  dormant  secret  antagonisms  that  seemed  ever 
to  lie  between  them.  She  saw  them  animating  his  eyes, 
stiffening  his  pose. 

Pointing  to  the  cup  and  saucer  on  the  desk,  Edwin 
said,  critically: 

"That  all  you've  had?" 

"Can  you  let  me  have  ten  pounds?"  she  asked 
bluntly,  ignoring  his  implication  that  in  the  matter 
of  nourishment  she  had  not  behaved  sensibly. 

"Ten  pounds?  More?"  He  was  on  the  defensive,  as 
it  were  crouching  warily  behind  a  screen  of  his  sus- 
picions. 

She  nodded,  awkwardly.  She  wanted  to  be  graceful, 
persuasive,  enveloping,  but  she  could  not.  It  was  to 
repay  Janet  that  she  had  need  of  the  money.  She 
ought  to  have  obtained  it  before,  but  she  had  post- 
poned the  demand,  and  she  had  been  wrong.  Janet 


264?  THESE  TWAIN 

would  not  require  the  money,  she  would  have  no  im- 
mediate use  for  it,  but  Hilda  could  not  bear  to  be  in 
debt  to  her;  to  leave  the  sum  outstanding  would  seem 
so  strange,  so  sinister,  so  equivocal;  it  would  mar  all 
their  intercourse. 

"But  look  here,  child,"  said  Edwin,  protesting, 
"I've  given  you  about  forty  times  as  much  as  you  can 
possibly  want  already.'* 

He  had  never  squarely  refused  any  demand  of  hers 
for  money ;  he  had  almost  always  acceded  instantly  and 
without  enquiry  to  her  demands.  Obviously  he  felt 
sympathy  with  the  woman  who  by  eternal  custom  is 
forced  to  ask,  and  had  a  horror  of  behaving  as  the 
majority  of  husbands  notoriously  behaved  in  such  cir- 
cumstances ;  obviously  he  was  anxious  not  to  avail 
himself  of  the  husband's  overwhelming  economic  ad- 
vantage. Nevertheless  the  fact  that  he  earned  and 
she  didn't  was  ever  mysteriously  present  in  his  rela- 
tively admirable  attitude.  And  sometimes — perhaps 
not  without  grounds,  she  admitted — he  would  hesitate 
before  a  request,  and  in  him  a  hesitation  was  as  humil- 
iating as  a  refusal  would  have  been  from  another  man. 
And  Hilda  resented,  not  so  much  his  attitude,  as  the 
whole  social  convention  upon  which  it  was  unassailably 
based.  He  earned — she  knew.  She  would  not  deny 
that  he  was  the  unique  source  and  that  without  him 
there  would  be  naught.  But  still  she  did  not  think  that 
she  ought  to  have  to  ask.  On  the  other  hand  she  had 
no  alternative  plan  to  offer.  Her  criticism  of  the 
convention  was  destructive,  not  constructive.  And 
all  Edwin's  careful  regard  for  a  woman's  susceptibili- 
ties seemed  only  to  intensify  her  deep-hidden  revolt. 
It  was  a  mere  chance  that  he  was  thus  chivalrous.  And 
whether  he  was  chivalrous  or  not,  she  was  in  his  power ; 
and  she  chafed. 


THE  DEPARTURE  265 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  could  let  me  have  it,"  she 
said,  grimly. 

The  appeal,  besides  being  unpersuasive  in  manner, 
was  too  general;  it  did  not  particularize.  There  was 
no  frankness  between  them.  She  saw  his  suspicions 
multiplying.  What  did  he  suspect?  What  could  he 
suspect?  .  .  .  Ah!  And  why  was  she  herself  so 
timorous,  so  strangely  excited,  about  going  even  to 
the  edge  of  Dartmoor?  And  why  did  she  feel  guilty, 
why  was  her  glance  so  constrained? 

"Well,  I  can't,"  he  answered.  "Not  now ;  but  if  any- 
thing unexpected  turns  up,  I  can  send  you  a  cheque." 

She  was  beaten. 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  front-door,  well  in  advance 
of  time. 

"It's  for  Janet,"  she  muttered  to  him,  desperately. 

Edwin's  face  changed. 

"Why  in  thunder  didn't  you  say  so  to  start  with?" 
he  exclaimed.  "I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  Of  course  I've 
got  a  fiver  in  my  pocket-book." 

There  were  a  number  of  men  in  the  town  who  made 
a  point  of  always  having  a  reserve  five-pound  note  and 
a  telegraph-form  upon  their  persons.  It  was  the 
dandyism  of  well-off  prudence. 

He  sprang  out  of  the  room.  The  door  swung  to 
behind  him. 

In  a  very  few  moments  he  returned. 

"Here  you  are!"  he  said,  taking  the  note  from  his 
pocket-book  and  adding  it  to  a  collection  of  gold  and 
silver. 

Hilda  was  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  tail  of 
the  cab.  She  did  not  move. 

"I  don't  want  it,  thanks,"  she  replied  coldly.  And 
she  thought:  "What  a  fool  I  am!" 

"Oh!"  he  murmured,  with  constraint. 


266  THESE  TWAIN 

"You'd  do  it  for  her!"  said  Hilda,  chill  and  clear, 
"But  you  wouldn't  do  it  for  me."  And  she  thought: 
"Why  do  I  say  such  a  thing?" 

He  slapped  all  the  money  crossly  down  on  the  desk 
and  left  the  room.  She  could  hear  him  instructing  Ada 
and  the  cabman  in  the  manipulation  of  the  great  port- 
manteau. 

"Now,  mother!"  cried  George. 

She  gazed  at  the  money,  and,  picking  it  up,  shovelled 
it  into  her  purse.  It  was  irresistible. 

In  the  hall  she  kissed  George,  and  nodded  with  a 
plaintive  smile  at  Ada.  Edwin  was  in  the  porch.  He 
held  back ;  she  held  back.  She  knew  from  his  face  that 
he  would  not  offer  to  kiss  her.  The  strange  power 
that  had  compelled  her  to  alienate  him  refused  to  allow 
her  to  relent.  She  passed  down  the  steps  out  into  the 
rain.  They  nodded,  the  theory  for  George  and  Ada 
being  that  they  had  made  their  farewells  in  the  bou- 
doir. But  George  and  Ada  none  the  less  had  their 
notions.  It  appeared  to  Hilda  that  instead  of  going 
for  a  holiday  with  her  closest  friend,  she  was  going 
to  some  recondite  disaster  that  involved  the  end  of 
marriage.  And  the  fact  that  she  and  Edwin  had  not 
kissed  outweighed  all  other  facts  in  the  universe.  Yet 
what  was  a  kiss?  Until  the  cab  laboriously  started 
she  hoped  for  a  miracle.  It  did  not  happen.  If  only 
on  the  previous  night  she  had  not  absolutely  insisted 
that  nobody  from  the  house  should  accompany  her  to 
Knype!  .  .  .  The  porch  slipped  from  her  vision. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

TAVY  MANSION 


HILDA  and  Harry  Hesketh  stood  together  in  the 
soft  warm  Devonshire  sunshine  bending  above  the  foot- 
high  wire-netting  that  separated  the  small  ornamental 
pond  from  the  lawn.  By  their  side  was  a  St.  Bernard 
dog  with  his  great  baptising  tongue  hanging  out. 
Two  swans,  glittering  in  the  strong  light,  swam  slowly 
to  and  fro;  one  had  a  black  claw  tucked  up  on  his 
back  among  downy  white  feathers ;  the  other  hissed 
at  the  dog,  who  in  his  vast  and  shaggy  good-nature 
simply  could  not  understand  this  malevolence  on  the 
part  of  a  fellow-creature.  Round  about  the  elegant 
haughtiness  of  the  swans  clustered  a  number  of  iri- 
descent Muscovy  ducks,  and  a  few  white  Aylesburys 
with  gamboge  beaks  that  intermittently  quacked,  all 
restless  and  expectant  of  blessings  to  fall  over  the 
wire-netting  that  eternally  separated  them  from  the 
heavenly  hunting-ground  of  the  lawn.  Across  the 
pond,  looking  into  a  moored  dinghy,  an  enormous  drake 
with  a  vermilion  top-knot  reposed  on  the  balustrade 
of  the  landing-steps.  The  water  reflected  everything 
in  a  rippled  medley — blue  sky,  rounded  woolly  clouds, 
birds,  shrubs,  flowers,  grasses,  and  browny-olive 
depths  of  the  plantation  beyond  the  pond,  where  tiny 
children  in  white  were  tumbling  and  shrieking  with  a 
nurse  in  white. 

Harry  was  extraordinarily  hospitable,  kind,  and 

267 


268  THESE  TWAIN 

agreeable  to  his  guest.  Scarcely  thirty,  tall  and  slim, 
he  carried  himself  with  distinction.  His  flannels  were 
spotless ;  his  white  shirt  was  spotless ;  his  tennis  shoes 
were  spotless;  but  his  blazer,  cap  and  necktie  (which 
all  had  the  same  multicoloured  pattern  of  stripes) 
were  shabby,  soiled,  and  without  shape;  nevertheless 
their  dilapidation  seemed  only  to  adorn  his  dandyism, 
for  they  possessed  a  mysterious  sacred  quality.  He 
had  a  beautiful  moustache,  nice  eyes,  hands  excitingly 
dark  with  hair,  and  no  affectations  whatever.  Al- 
though he  had  inherited  Tavy  Mansion  and  a  fortune 
from  an  aunt  who  had  left  Oldcastle  and  the  smoke  to 
marry  a  Devonshire  landowner,  he  was  boyish,  modest, 
and  ingenuous.  Nobody  could  have  guessed  from  his 
manner  that  he  had  children,  nurses,  servants,  gar- 
deners, grooms,  horses,  carriages,  a  rent-roll,  and  a 
safe  margin  at  every  year's  end.  He  spoke  of  the 
Five  Towns  with  a  mild  affection.  Hilda  thought, 
looking  at  him:  "He  has  everything,  simply  every- 
thing !  And  yet  he's  quite  unspoilt !"  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  in  previous  years  he  had  seen  Hilda  only  a 
few  times — and  that  quite  casually  at  the  Orgreaves' — 
he  hfcd  assumed  and  established  intimacy  at  the  very 
moment  of  meeting  her  and  Janet  at  Tavistock  station 
the  night  before,  and  their  friendship  might  now  have 
been  twenty  years  old  instead  of  twenty  hours.  Very 
obviously  he  belonged  to  a  class  superior  to  Hilda's, 
but  he  was  apparently  quite  unconscious  of  what  was 
still  the  most  deeply-rooted  and  influential  institution 
of  English  life.  His  confiding  confidential  tone  flat- 
tered her. 

"How  do  you  think  Alicia's  looking?"  he  asked. 

"Magnificent,"  said  Hilda,  throwing  a  last  piece  of 
bread  into  the  water. 

"So  do  I,"  said  he.     "But  she's  ruined  for  tennis, 


TAVY  MANSION  269 

you  know.  This  baby  business  is  spiffing,  only  it  puts 
you  right  off  your  game.  As  a  rule  she  manages  to 
be  hors  de  combat  bang  in  the  middle  of  the  season. 
She  Jias  been  able  to  play  a  bit  this  year,  but  she*s  not 
keen — that's  what's  up  with  her  ladyship — she's  not 
keen  now." 

"Well,"  said  Hilda.  "Even  you  can't  have  every- 
thing." 

"Why  'even*  me?"     He  laughed. 

She  merely  gazed  at  him  with  a  mysterious  smile. 
She  perceived  that  he  was  admiring  her — probably  for 
her  enigmatic  quality,  so  different  from  Alicia's — and 
she  felt  a  pleasing  self-content. 

"Edwin  do  much  tennis  nowadays?" 

"Edwin?"  She  repeated  the  name  in  astonishment, 
as  though  it  were  the  name  of  somebody  who  could 
not  possibly  be  connected  with  tennis.  "Not  he !  He's 
not  touched  a  racket  all  this  season.  He's  quite  other- 
wise employed." 

"I  hear  he's  a  fearful  pot  in  the  Five  Towns,  any- 
way," said  Harry  seriously.  "Making  money  hand 
over  fist." 

Hilda  raised  her  eyebrows  and  shook  her  head  depre- 
catingly.  But  the  marked  respectfulness  of  Harry's 
reference  to  Edwin  was  agreeable.  She  thought:  "I 
do  believe  I'm  becoming  a  snob!" 

"It's  hard  work  making  money,  even  in  our  small 
way,  in  Bursley,"  she  said — and  seemed  to  indicate  the 
expensive  spaciousness  of  the  gardens. 

"I  should  like  to  see  old  Edwin  again." 

"I  never  knew  you  were  friends." 

"Well,  I  used  to  see  him  pretty  often  at  Lane  End 
House,  after  Alicia  and  I  were  engaged.  In  fact  once 
he  jolly  nearly  beat  me  in  a  set." 

"Edwin  did?"  she  exclaimed. 


270  THESE  TWAIN 

"The  same.  .  .  .  He  had  a  way  of  saying  things 
that  a  feller  somehow  thought  about  afterwards." 

"Oh!     So  you  noticed  that!" 

"Does  he  still?" 

"I— I  don't  know.    But  he  used  to." 

"You  ought  to  have  brought  him.  In  fact  I  quite 
thought  he  was  coming.  Anyhow,  I  told  Alicia  to 
invite  him,  too,  as  soon  as  we  knew  you  were  bringing 
old  Jan  down." 

"She  did  mention  it,  Alicia  did.  But,  oh!  He 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  Works !  Works !  No  holiday  all 
summer." 

"I'll  tell  you  a  scheme,"  said  Harry  roguishly.  "Re- 
fuse to  rejoin  the  domestic  hearth  until  he  comes  and 
fetches  you." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Oh,  he  won't  come  to  fetch 
me." 

"Well,"  said  Harry  shortly  and  decisively,  "we  shall 
see  what  can  be  done.  I  may  tell  you  we're  rather 
great  at  getting  people  down  here.  ...  I  wonder 
where  those  girls  are?"  He  turned  round  and  Hilda 
turned  round. 

The  red  Georgian  house  with  its  windows  in  octago- 
nal panes,  its  large  pediment  hiding  the  centre  of  the 
roof,  and  its  white  paint,  showed  brilliantly  across  the 
hoop-studded  green,  between  some  cypresses  and  an 
ilex;  on  either  side  were  smooth  walls  of  green — 
trimmed  shrubs  forming  long  alleys  whose  floors  were 
also  green ;  and  here  and  there  a  round  or  oval  flower- 
bed, and,  at  the  edges  of  the  garden,  curved  borders  of 
flowers.  Everything  was  still,  save  the  ship-like  birds 
on  the  pond,  the  distant  children  in  the  plantation, 
and  the  slow-moving,  small  clouds  overhead.  The 
sun's  warmth  was  like  an  endearment. 

Janet   and  Alicia,   their   arms   round   each  other's 


TAVY  MANSION  271 

shoulders,  sauntered  into  view  from  behind  the  cy- 
presses. On  the  more  sheltered  lawn  nearest  the  house 
they  were  engaged  in  a  quiet  but  tremendous  palaver; 
nobody  but  themselves  knew  what  they  were  talking 
about;  it  might  have  been  the  affair  of  Johnnie  and 
Mrs.  Chris  Hamson,  as  to  which  not  a  word  had  been 
publicly  said  at  Tavy  Mansion  since  Janet  and  Hilda's 
arrival.  Janet  still  wore  black,  and  now  she  carried 
a  red  sunshade  belonging  to  Alicia.  Alicia  was  in 
white,  not  very  clean  white,  and  rather  tousled.  She 
was  only  twenty-five.  She  had  grown  big  and  jolly  and 
downright  (even  to  a  certain  shamelessness)  and  care- 
less of  herself.  Her  body  had  the  curves,  and  her  face 
the  emaciation,  of  the  young  mother.  She  used  abrupt, 
gawky,  kind-hearted  gestures.  Her  rough  affectionate- 
ness  embraced  not  merely  her  children,  but  all  young 
living  things,  and  many  old.  For  her  children  she  had  a 
passion.  And  she  would  say  openly,  as  it  were,  defi- 
antly, that  she  meant  to  be  the  mother  of  more  chil- 
dren— lots  more. 

"Hey,  lass !"  cried  out  Harry,  using  the  broad  Staf- 
fordshire accent  for  the  amusement  of  Hilda. 

The  sisters  stopped  and  untwined  their  arms. 

"Hey,  lad !"  Alicia  loudly  responded.  But  instead 
of  looking  at  her  husband  she  was  looking  through 
him  at  the  babies  in  the  plantation  behind  the  pond. 

Janet  smiled,  in  her  everlasting  resignation.  Hilda, 
smiling  at  her  in  return  from  the  distance,  recalled 
the  tone  in  which  Harry  had  said  'old  Jan' — a  tone  at 
once  affectionate  and  half-contemptuous.  She  was 
old  Jan,  now;  destined  to  be  a  burden  upon  somebody 
and  of  very  little  use  to  anybody ;  no  longer  necessary. 
If  she  disappeared,  life  would  immediately  close  over 
her,  and  not  a  relative,  not  a  friend,  would  be  incon- 
venienced. Some  among  them  would  remark:  "Per- 


[THESE  TWAIN 

haps  it's  for  the  best/'  And  Janet  knew  it.  In  the 
years  immediately  preceding  the  death  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Orgreave,  she  had  hardened  a  little  from  her  earlier 
soft,  benevolent  self — hardened  to  everybody  save  her 
father  and  mother,  whom  she  protected — and  now  she 
was  utterly  tender  again,  and  her  gentle  acquiescences 
seemed  to  say:  "I  am  defenceless,  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  be  old." 

"I'm  going  to  telegraph  to  Edwin  Clayhanger  to 
come  down  for  the  week-end,"  shouted  Harry. 

And  Alicia  shouted  in  reply: 

"Oh!     Spiffing!" 

Hilda  said  nervously: 

"You  aren't,  really?" 

She  had  no  intention  of  agreeing  to  the  pleasant 
project.  A  breach  definitely  existed  between  Edwin 
and  herself,  and  the  idea  of  either  maintaining  it  or 
ending  it  on  foreign  ground  was  inconceivable.  Such 
things  could  only  be  done  at  home.  She  had  tele- 
graphed a  safe  arrival,  but  she  had  not  yet  written 
to  him  nor  decided  in  what  tone  she  should  write. 

Two  gardeners,  one  pushing  a  wheeled  water-can, 
appeared  from  an  alley  and  began  silently  and  assidu- 
ously to  water  a  shaded  flower-bed.  Alicia  and  Harry 
continued  to  shout  enthusiastically  to  each  other  in 
a  manner  sufficiently  disturbing,  but  the  gardeners 
gave  no  sign  that  anybody  except  themselves  lived  in 
the  garden.  Alicia,  followed  by  Janet,  was  slowly  ad- 
vancing towards  the  croquet  lawn,  when  a  parlourmaid 
tripping  from  the  house  overtook  her,  and  with  mod- 
est deference  murmured  something  to  the  bawling,  jolly 
mistress.  Alicia,  still  followed  by  Janet,  turned  and 
went  into  the  house,  while  the  parlourmaid  with  bent 
head  waited  discreetly  to  bring  up  the  rear. 

A  sudden  and  terrific  envy  possessed  Hilda  as  she 


TAVY  MANSION  27S 

contrasted  the  circumstances  of  these  people  with  her 
own.  These  people  lived  in  lovely  and  cleanly  sur- 
roundings without  a  care  beyond  the  apprehension  of 
nursery  ailments.  They  had  joyous  and  kindly  dis- 
positions. They  were  well-bred,  and  they  were  at- 
tended by  servants  who,  professionally,  were  even  bet- 
ter bred  than  themselves,  and  who  were  rendered  happy 
by  smooth  words  and  good  pay.  They  lived  at  peace 
with  everyone.  Full  of  health,  they  ate  well  and  slept 
well.  They  suffered  no  strain.  They  had  absolutely 
no  problems,  and  they  did  not  seek  problems.  Nor 
had  they  any  duties,  save  agreeable  ones  to  each  other. 
Their  world  was  ideal.  If  you  had  asked  them  how 
their  world  could  be  improved  for  them,  they  would  not 
have  found  an  easy  reply.  They  could  only  have  de- 
manded less  taxes  and  more  fine  days.  .  .  .  Whereas 
Hilda  and  hers  were  forced  to  live  among  a  brutal 
populace,  amid  the  most  horrible  surroundings  of 
smoke,  dirt,  and  squalor.  In  Devonshire  the  Five 
Towns  was  unthinkable;  the  whiteness  of  the  window- 
curtains  at  Tavy  Mansion  almost  broke  the  heart  of 
the  housewife  in  Hilda.  And  compare — not  Hilda's 
handkerchief-garden,  but  even  the  old  garden  of  the 
Orgreaves,  with  this  elysium,  where  nothing  offended 
the  eye  and  the  soot  nowhere  lay  on  the  trees,  blacken- 
ing the  shiny  leaves  and  stunting  the  branches.  And 
compare  the  too  mean  planning  and  space-saving  of 
the  house  in  Trafalgar  Road  with  the  lavish  generosity 
of  space  inside  Tavy  Mansion !  .  .  . 

Edwin  in  the  Bursley  sense  was  a  successful  man, 
and  had  consequence  in  the  town,  but  the  most  that 
he  had  acomplished  or  could  accomplish  would  not 
amount  to  the  beginning  of  appreciable  success  ac- 
cording to  higher  standards.  Nobody  in  Bursley  really 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  success.  And  even  such 


#74  THESE  TWAIN 

local  success  as  Edwin  had  had — at  what  peril  and 
with  what  worry  was  it  won!  These  Heskeths  were 
safe  forever.  Ah!  She  envied  them,  and  she  intensely 
depreciated  everything  that  was  hers.  She  stood  in 
the  Tavy  Mansion  garden — it  seemed  to  her — like  an 
impostor.  Her  husband  was  merely  struggling  up- 
wards. And  moreover  she  had  quarrelled  with  him, 
darkly  and  obscurely;  and  who  , could  guess  what 
would  be  the  end  of  marriage  ?  Harry  and  Alicia  never 
quarrelled;  they  might  have  tiffs — nothing  worse  than 
ihat;  they  had  no  grounds  for  quarrelling.  .  .  .  And 
supposing  Harry  and  Alicia  guessed  the  link  connect- 
ing her  with  Dartmoor  prison !  .  .  .  No,  it  could 
not  be  supposed.  Her  envy  melted  into  secret  deep 
dejection  amid  the  beautiful  and  prosperous  scene. 

"Evidently  some  one's  called,"  said  Harry,  of  his 
wife's  disappearance.  "I  hope  she's  nice." 

"Who?" 

"Whoever's  called.  Shall  we  knock  the  balls  about 
a  bit?" 

They  began  a  mild  game  of  croquet.  But  after  a 
few  minutes  Hilda  burst  out  sharply: 

"You  aren't  playing  your  best,  Mr.  Hesketh.  I 
wish  you  would." 

He  was  startled  by  her  eyes  and  her  tone. 

"Honest  Injun!  I  am,"  he  fibbed  in  answer.  "But 
I'll  try  to  do  better.  You  must  remember  croquet 
isn't  my  game.  Alicia  floors  me  at  it  five  times  out 
of  six." 

Then  the  parlourmaid  and  another  maid  came  out  to 
lay  tea  on  two  tables  under  the  ilex. 

"Bowley,"  said  Harry  over  his  shoulder.  "Bring 
me  a  telegraph- form  next  time  you  come  out,  will  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  parlourmaid. 

Hilda  protested: 


TAVY  MANSION  275 

"No,  Mr.  Hesketh !    Really !    I  assure  you — " 

The  telegraph-form  came  with  the  tea.  Harry 
knocked  a  ball  against  a  coloured  stick,  and  both  he 
and  Hilda  sat  down  with  relief. 

"Who's  called,  Bowley?" 

"Mrs.  Rotherwas,  sir." 

Harry  counted  the  cups- 

"Isn't  she  staying  for  tea?" 

"No,  sir.     I  think  not,  sir." 

Hilda,  humming,  rose  and  walked  about.  At  the 
same  moment  Alicia,  Janet,  and  a  tall  young  woman 
in  black  and  yellow  emerged  from  the  house.  Hilda 
moved  behind  a  tree.  She  could  hear  good-byes.  The 
group  vanished  round  the  side  of  the  house,  and  then 
came  the  sound  of  hoofs  and  of  wheels  crunching. 
An  instant  later  Alicia  arrived  at  the  ilex,  bounding 
and  jolly;  Janet  moved  more  sedately.  The  St.  Ber- 
nard, who  had  been  reposing  near  the  pond,  now  smelt 
the  tea  and  hot  cakes  and  joined  the  party.  The  wag- 
ging of  his  powerful  tail  knocked  over  a  wicker-chair, 
and  Alicia  gave  a  squeal.  Then  Alicia,  putting  her 
hands  to  her  mouth,  shouted  across  the  lawn  and  the 
pond: 

"Nursey !    Nursey !    Take  them  in !" 

And  a  faint  reply  came. 

"What  was  the  Rotherwas  dame  after?"  asked 
Harry,  sharpening  a  pencil,  when  Alicia  had  ascer- 
tained the  desires  of  her  guests  as  to  milk  and  sugar. 

"She  was  after  you,  of  course,"  said  Alicia.  "Ten- 
nis party  on  Monday.  She  wants  you  to  balance 
young  Truscott.  I  just  told  her  so.  We  shall  all  go. 
You'll  go,  Hilda.  She'll  be  delighted.  I  should  have 
brought  her  along  only  she  was  in  such  a  hurry." 

Hilda  enquired: 

"Who  is,  Mrs.  Rotherwas?" 


276  THESE  TWAIN 

"Her  husband's  a  big  coal-owner  at  Cardiff.  But 
she's  a  niece  or  something  of  the  governor  of  Dart- 
moor prison,  and  she's  apparently  helping  to  keep 
house  for  dear  uncle  just  now.  They'll  take  us  over 
the  prison  before  tennis.  It's  awfully  interesting. 
Harry  and  I  have  been  once." 

"Oh !"  murmured  Hilda,  ^staggered. 

"Now  about  this  'ere  woire,"  said  Harry.  "What 
price  this?"  He  handed  over  the  message  which  he 
had  just  composed.  It  was  rather  long,  and  on  the 
form  was  left  space  for  only  two  more  words. 

Hilda  could  not  decipher  it.  She  saw  the  charac- 
ters with  her  eyes,  but  she  was  incapable  of  interpret- 
ing them.  All  the  time  she  thought: 

"I  shall  go  to  that  prison.  I  can't  help  it.  I  shan't 
be  able  to  keep  from  going.  I  shall  go  to  that  prison. 
I  must  go.  Who  could  have  imagined  this?  I  am 
bound  to  go,  and  I  shall  go." 

But  instead  of  objecting  totally  to  the  despatch  of 
the  telegram,  she  said  in  a  strange  voice: 

"It's  very  nice  of  you." 

"You  fill  up  the  rest  of  the  form,"  said  Harry, 
offering  the  pencil. 

"What  must  I  put?" 

"Well,  you'd  better  put  'Countersigned,  Hilda.' 
That'll  fix  it." 

"Will  you  write  it?"  she  muttered. 

He  wrote  the  words. 

"Let  poor  mummy  see!"  Alicia  complained,  seizing 
the  telegraph-form. 

Harry  called  out: 

"Leeks !" 

A  shirt-sleeved  gardener  half  hidden  by  foliage 
across  the  garden  looked  up  sharply,  saw  Harry's  beck- 
oning finger,  and  approached  running. 


TAVY  MANSION  277 

"Have  that  sent  off  for  me,  will  you?  Tell  Jos  to 
take  it,"  said  Harry,  and  gave  Leeks  the  form  and  a 
florin. 

"Why,  Hilda,  you  aren't  eating  anything!"  pro- 
tested Alicia. 

"I  only  want  tea,"  said  Hilda  casually,  wondering 
whether  they  had  noticed  anything  wrong  in  her  face. 


Edwin,  looking  curiously  out  of  the  carriage- 
window  as  the  train  from  Plymouth  entered  Tavistock 
station  early  on  the  Monday,  was  surprised  to  per- 
ceive Harry  Hesketh  on  the  platform.  While,  in  the 
heavenly  air  of  the  September  morning,  the  train  was 
curving  through  Bickleigh  Vale  and  the  Valley  of  the 
Plym  and  through  the  steeper  valley  of  the  Meavy  up 
towards  the  first  fastnesses  of  the  Moor,  he  had  felt 
his  body  to  be  almost  miraculously  well  and  his  soul 
almost  triumphant.  But  when  he  saw  Harry — the  re- 
membered figure,  but  a  little  stouter  and  coarser 
— he  saw  a  being  easily  more  triumphant  than  him- 
self. 

Harry  had  great  reason  for  triumph,  for  he  had 
proved  himself  to  possess  a  genius  for  deductive  psy- 
chological reasoning  and  for  prophecy.  Edwin  had 
been  characteristically  vague  about  the  visit.  First  he 
had  telegraphed  that  he  could  not  come,  business  pre- 
venting. Then  he  had  telegraphed  that  he  would  come, 
but  only  on  Sunday,  and  he  had  given  no  particulars 
of  trains.  They  had  all  assured  one  another  that  this 
was  just  like  Edwin.  "The  man's  mad!"  said  Harry 
with  genial  benevolence,  and  had  set  himself  to  one 
of  his  favourite  studies — Bradshaw.  He  always  han- 
dled Bradshaw  like  a  master,  accomplishing  feats  of 


278  THESE  TWAIN 

interpretation  that  amazed  his  wife.  He  had  an- 
nounced, after  careful  connotations,  that  Edwin  was 
perhaps  after  all  not  such  a  chump,  but  that  he  was 
in  fact  a  chump,  in  that,  having  chosen  the  Bristol- 
Plymouth  route,  he  had  erred  about  the  Sunday  night 
train  from  Plymouth  to  Tavistock.  How  did  he  know 
that  Edwin  would  choose  the  Bristol-Plymouth 
route?  Well,  his  knowledge  was  derived  from  divina- 
tion, based  upon  vast  experience  of  human  nature. 
Edwin  would  "get  stuck"  at  Plymouth.  He  would 
sleep  at  Plymouth — staying  at  the  Royal  (he  hoped) 
— and  would  come  on  by  the  8.1  a.m.  on  Monday, 
arriving  at  8.59  a.m.,  where  he  would  be  met  by 
Harry  in  the  dog-cart  drawn  by  Joan.  The  tele- 
graph was  of  course  closed  after  10  a.m.  on  Sunday, 
but  if  it  had  been  open  and  he  had  been  receiving 
hourly  despatches  about  Edwin's  tortuous  progress 
through  England,  Harry  could  not  have  been  more 
sure  of  his  position.  And  on  the  Monday  Harry 
had  risen  up  in  the  very  apogee  of  health,  and  had 
driven  Joan  to  the  station.  "Mark  my  words!"  he 
had  said.  "I  shall  bring  him  back  with  me  for  break- 
fast." He  had  offered  to  take  Hilda  to  the  station 
to  witness  his  triumph;  but  Hilda  had  not  accepted. 

And  there  Edwin  was!  Everything  had  happened 
according  to  Harry's  prediction,  except  that,  from  an 
unfortunate  modesty,  Edwin  had  gone  to  the  wrong 
hotel  at  Plymouth. 

They  shook  hands  in  a  glow  of  mutual  pleasure. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  know?"  Edwin  began. 

The  careful-casual  answer  rounded  off  Harry's 
triumph.  And  Edwin  thought:  "Why,  he's  just  like 
a  grown-up  boy !"  But  he  was  distinguished ;  his 
club-necktie  in  all  its  decay  was  still  impressive ;  and 
his  expansive  sincere  goodwill  was  utterly  delightful. 


TAVY  MANSION 

Also  the  station,  neat,  clean,  solid — the  negation  of 
all  gimcrackery — had  an  aspect  of  goodwill  to  man; 
its  advertisements  did  not  flare;  and  it  seemed  to  be 
the  expression  of  a  sound  and  self-respecting  race. 
The  silvern  middle-aged  guard  greeted  Harry  with 
deferential  heartiness  and  saluted  Edwin  with  even 
more  warmth  than  he  had  used  at  Plymouth.  On 
the  Sunday  Edwin  had  noticed  that  in  the  western 
country  guards  were  not  guards  (as  in  other  parts 
of  England),  but  rather  the  cordial  hosts  of  their 
trains.  As  soon  as  the  doors  had  banged  in  a  fusil- 
lade and  the  engine  whistled,  a  young  porter  came 
and,  having  exchanged  civilities  with  Harry,  picked 
up  Edwin's  bag.  This  porter's  face  and  demeanour 
showed  perfect  content.  His  slight  yet  eager  smile 
and  his  quick  movements  seemed  to  be  saying:  "It 
is  natural  and  proper  that  I  should  salute  you  and 
carry  your  bag  while  you  walk  free.  You  are  gen- 
tlemen by  divine  right,  and  by  the  same  right  I  am 
a  railway  porter  and  happy."  To  watch  the  man 
at  his  job  gave  positive  pleasure,  and  it  was  extra- 
ordinarily reassuring — reassuring  about  everything. 
Outside  the  station,  the  groom  stood  at  Joan's  head, 
and  a  wonderful  fox-terrier  sat  alert  under  the  dog- 
cart. Instantly  the  dog  sprang  out  and  began  to 
superintend  the  preparations  for  departure,  rushing 
to  and  fro  and  insisting  all  the  time  that  delay  would 
be  monstrous,  if  not  fatal.  The  dog's  excellence  as 
a  specimen  of  breeding  was  so  superlative  as  to  ac- 
cuse its  breeder  and  owner  of  a  lack  of  perspective 
in  life.  It  was  as  if  the  entire  resources  of  civiliza- 
tion had  been  employed  towards  the  perfecting  of  the 
points  of  that  dog. 

"Balanced  the  cart,  I  suppose,  Jos?"  asked  Harry, 
kindly. 


280  THESE  TWAIN 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  all  that  Jos  articulated,  but  his 
bright  face  said:  "Sir,  your  assumption  that  I  have 
already  balanced  the  cart  for  three  and  a  bag  is  be- 
nevolent and  justified.  You  trust  me.  I  trust  you, 
sir.  All  is  well." 

The  bag  was  stowed  and  the  porter  got  threepence 
and  was  so  happy  in  his  situation  that  apparently 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  the  scene.  Harry 
climbed  up  on  the  right,  Edwin  on  the  left.  The  dog 
gave  one  short  bark  and  flew  madly  forward.  Jos 
loosed  Joan's  head,  and  at  the  same  moment  Harry 
.gave  a  click,  and  the  machine  started.  It  did  not 
wait  for  young  Jos.  Jos  caught  the  back  step  as  the 
machine  swung  by,  and  levered  himself  dangerously  to 
the  groom's  place.  And  when  he  had  done  it  he 
grinned,  announcing  to  beholders  that  his  mission  in 
life  was  to  do  just  that,  and  that  it  was  a  grand  life 
and  he  a  lucky  and  enviable  fellow. 

Harry  drove  across  the  Tavy,  and  through  the  small 
grey  and  brown  town,  so  picturesque,  so  clean,  so  solid, 
so  respectable,  so  content  in  its  historicity.  A  police- 
man saluted  amiably  and  firmly,  as  if  saying:  "I  am 
protecting  all  this, — what  a  treasure!"  Then  they 
passed  the  Town  Hall. 
'  ^Town  Hall,"  said  Harry. 

"Oh!" 

"The  Book's,"  said  Harry. 

He  put  on  a  certain  facetiousness,  but  there  never- 
theless escaped  from  him  the  conviction  that  the  own- 
ership of  a  town  hall  by  a  Duke  was  a  wondrous  rare 
phenomenon  and  fine,  showing  the  strength  of  grand 
English  institutions  and  traditions,  and  meet  for  hon- 
est English  pride.  (And  you  could  say  what  you 
liked  about  progress!)  And  Edwin  had  just  the  same 
feeling.  In  another  minute  they  were  out  of  the  town. 


TAVY  MANSION  281 

The  countryside,  though  bleak,  with  its  spare  hedges 
and  granite  walls,  was  exquisitely  beautiful  in  the 
morning  light;  and  it  was  tidy,  tended,  mature;  it 
was  as  though  it  had  nothing  to  learn  from  the  fu- 
ture. Beyond  rose  the  slopes  of  the  moor,  tonic  and 
grim.  An  impression  of  health,  moral  and  physical, 
everywhere  disengaged  itself.  The  wayfarer,  sturdy 
and  benign,  invigorated  by  his  mere  greeting.  The 
trot  of  the  horse  on  the  smooth  winding  road,  the 
bounding  of  the  dog,  the  resilience  of  the  cart-springs, 
the  sharp  tang  of  the  air  on  the  cheek,  all  helped  to 
perfect  Edwin's  sense  of  pleasure  in  being  alive.  He 
could  not  deny  that  he  had  stood  in  need  of  a  change. 
He  had  been  worrying,  perhaps  through  over- 
work. Overwork  was  a  mistake.  He  now  saw  that 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  happy 
always,  even  with  Hilda.  He  had  received  a  short  but 
nice  and  almost  apologetic  letter  from  Hilda.  As  for 
his  apprehensions,  what  on  earth  did  it  matter  about 
Dartmoor  being  so  near?  Nothing!  This  district 
was  marvellously  reassuring.  He  thought:  "There 
simply  is  no  social  question  down  here!" 

"Had  your  breakfast?"  asked  Harry. 

"Yes,  thanks." 

"Well,  you  just  haven't,  then!"  said  Harry.  "We 
shall  be  in  the  nick  of  time  for  it." 

"When  do  you  have  breakfast?" 

"Nine  thirty." 

"Bit  late,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh  no!  It  suits  us.  .  .  .  I  say!"  Harry  stared 
straight  between  the  horse's  ears. 

"What?" 

Harry  murmured: 

"No  more  news  about  Johnnie,  I   suppose?" 

(Edwin  glanced  half  round   at  the  groom   behind. 


282  THESE  TWAIN 

Harry  with  a  gesture  indicated  that  the  groom  was 
negligible. ) 

"Not  that  I've  heard.  Bit  stiff,  isn't  it?"  Edwin 
answered. 

"Bit  stiff?  I  should  rather  say  it  was.  Especially 
after  Jimmie's  performance.  Rather  hard  lines  on 
Alicia,  don't  you  think?" 

"On  all  of  'em,"  said  Edwin,  not  seeing  why  John- 
nie's escapade  should  press  more  on  Alicia  than,  for 
example,  on  Janet. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Harry  agreed,  evidently  seeing 
and  accepting  the  point.  "The  less  said  the  better!" 

"I'm  with  you,"  said  Edwin. 

Harry  resumed  his  jolly  tone: 

"Well,  you'd  better  peck  a  bit.  We've  planned  a 
hard  day  for  you." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes.  Early  lunch,  and  then  we're  going  to  drive 
over  to  Princetown.  Tennis  with  the  Governor  of  the 
prison.  He'll  show  us  all  over  the  prison.  It's  worth 
seeing." 

Impulsively  Edwin  exclaimed: 

"All  of  you?     Is  Hilda  going?" 

"Certainly.  Why  not?"  He  raised  the  whip  and 
pointed:  "Behold  our  noble  towers." 

Edwin,  feeling  really  sick,  thought: 

"Hilda's  mad.  She's  quite  mad.  ..  .  .  Morbid 
isn't  the  word!" 

He  was  confounded. 


m 

At  Tavy  Mansion  Edwin  and  Harry  were  told  by 
a  maid  that  Mrs.  Hesketh  and  Miss  Orgreave  were 
in  the  nursery  and  would  be  down  in  a  moment,  but 


TAVY  MANSION  283 

that  Mrs.  Clajhanger  had  a  headache  and  was  re- 
maining in  bed  for  breakfast.  The  master  of  the  house 
himself  took  Edwin  to  the  door  of  his  wife's  bedroom. 
Edwin's  spirits  had  risen  in  an  instant,  as  he  per- 
ceived the  cleverness  of  Hilda's  headache.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  women  were  clever,  though  per- 
haps unscrupulously  and  crudely  clever,  in  a  way  be- 
yond the  skill  of  men.  By  the  simple  device  of  suf- 
fering from  a  headache  Hilda  had  avoided  the  ordeal 
of  meeting  a  somewhat  estranged  husband  in  public; 
she  was  also  preparing  an  excuse  for  not  going  to 
Princetown  and  the  prison.  Certainly  it  was  better,  in 
the  Dartmoor  affair,  to  escape  at  the  last  moment  than 
to  have  declined  the  project  from  the  start. 

As  he  opened  the  bedroom-door,  apprehensions  and 
bright  hope  were  mingled  in  him.  He  had  a  weighty 
grievance  against  Hilda,  whose  behaviour  at  parting 
had  been,  he  considered,  inexcusable;  but  the  warm 
tone  of  her  curt  private  telegram  to  him  and  of  her 
almost  equally  curt  letter,  re-stating  her  passionate 
love,  was  really  equivalent  to  an  apology,  which  he  ac- 
cepted with  eagerness.  Moreover  he  had  done  a  lot  in 
coming  to  Devonshire,  and  for  this  great  act  he  lauded 
himself  and  he  expected  some  gratitude.  Nevertheless, 
despite  the  pacificism  of  his  feelings,  he  could  not  smile 
when  entering  the  room.  No,  he  could  not ! 

Hilda  was  lying  in  the  middle  of  a  very  wide  bed, 
and  her  dark  hair  was  spread  abroad  upon  the  pillow. 
On  the  pedestal  was  a  tea-tray.  Squatted  comfort- 
ably at  Hilda's  side,  with  her  left  arm  as  a  support, 
was  a  baby  about  a  year  old,  dressed  for  the  day. 
This  was  Cecil,  born  the  day  after  his  grandparents' 
funeral.  Cecil,  with  mouth  open  and  outstretched  pink 
hands,  of  which  the  fingers  were  spread  like  the  rays  of 
half  a  starfish,  from  wide  eyes  gazed  at  Edwin  with 


THESE  TWAIN 

a  peculiar  expression  of  bland  irony.  Hilda  smiled 
lovingly;  she  smiled  without  reserve.  And  as  soon  as 
she  smiled,  Edwin  could  smile,  and  his  heart  was  sud- 
denly quite  light. 

Hilda  thought: 

"That  wistful  look  in  his  eyes  has  never  changed, 
and  it  never  will.  Imagine  him  travelling  on  Sunday, 
when  the  silly  old  thing  might  just  as  well  have  come 
on  Saturday,  if  he'd  had  anybody  to  decide  him !  He's 
been  travelling  for  twenty-four  hours  or  more,  and 
now  he's  here !  What  a  shame  for  me  to  have  dragged 
him  down  here  in  spite  of  himself!  But  he  would  do 
it  for  me!  He  has  done  it.  ,.  ;.  .  I  had  to  have  him, 
for  this  afternoon!  .  ,.  ,.:  After  all  he  must  be  very 
good  at  business.  Everyone  respects  him,  even  here. 
We  may  end  by  being  really  rich.  Have  I  ever  really 
appreciated  him?  ...  ,..  ,.  And  now  of  course  he's  going 
to  be  annoyed  again.  Poor  boy!" 

"Hello!     Who's  this?"  cried  Edwin. 

"This  is  Cecil.  His  mummy's  left  him.  here  with 
his  Auntie  Hilda,"  said  Hilda. 

"Another  clever  dodge  of  hers!"  thought  Edwin. 
He  liked  the  baby  being  there. 

He  approached  the  bed,  and,  staring  nervously 
about,  saw  that  his  bag  had  already  mysteriously 
reached  the  bedroom. 

"Well,  my  poor  boy!  What  a  journey!"  Hilda 
murmured  compassionately.  She  could  not  help  show- 
ing that  she  was  his  mother  in  wisdom  and  sense. 

"Oh  no !"  he  amiably  dismissed  this  view. 

He  was  standing  over  her  by  the  bedside.  She 
looked  straight  up  at  him  timid  and  expectant.  He 
bent  and  kissed  her.  Under  his  kiss  she  shifted  slightly 
in  the  bed,  and  her  arms  clung  round  his  neck,  and 
by  her  arms  she  lifted  herself  a  little  towards  him. 


TAVY  MANSION  285 

She  shut  her  eyes.  She  would  not  loose  him.  She 
seemed  again  to  be  drawing  the  life  out  of  him.  At 
last  she  let  him  go,  and  gave  a  great  sigh.  All  the  past 
which  did  not  agree  with  that  kiss  and  that  sigh  of 
content  was  annihilated,  and  an  immense  reassurance 
filled  Edwin's  mind. 

"So  you've  got  a  headache?" 

She  gave  a  succession  of  little  nods,  smiling  hap- 

piiy- 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,  dearest,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause.  She  was  just  like  a  young  girl,  like  a  child, 
in  her  relieved  satisfaction.  "What  about  George?" 

"Well,  as  it  was  left  to  me  to  decide,  I  thought  I'd 
better  ask  Maggie  to  come  and  stay  in  the  house. 
Much  better  than  packing  him  u^  to  Auntie 
Hamps's." 

"And  she  came?" 

"Oh  yes !"  said  Edwin,  indiff erentl;  .  as  if  to  say : 
"Of  course  she  came." 

"Then  you  did  get  my  letter  in  t  .me  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  got  it  in  timf  if  I'd  left  Satur- 
day morning  as  you  wanted.  Oh f  And  here's  a  letter 
for  you." 

He  pulled  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  The  envelope 
was  of  the  peculiar  tinted  paper  with  which  he  had 
already  been  familiarised.  Hilda  became  self-con- 
scious as  she  took  the  letter  and  opened  it.  Edwin  too 
was  self-conscious.  To  lighten  the  situation,  he  put  his 
little  finger  in  the  baby's  mouth.  Cecil  much  appreciated 
this  form  of  humour,  and  as  soon  as  the  finger  was  with- 
drawn from  his  toothless  gums,  he  made  a  bubbling 
whirring  noise,  and  waved  his  arms  to  indicate  that 
the  game  must  continue.  Hilda,  frowning,  read  the 
letter.  Edwin  sat  down,  ledging  himself  cautiously 
on  the  brink  of  the  bed,  and  leaned  back  a  little  so  as 


286  THESE  TWAIN 

to  be  able  to  get  at  the  baby  and  tickle  it  among  its 
frills.  From  the  distance,  beyond  walls,  he  could  hear 
the  powerful  happy  cries  of  older  babies,  beings  fully 
aware  of  themselves,  who  knew  their  own  sentiments 
and  could  express  them.  And  he  glanced  round  the 
long  low  room  with  its  two  small  open  windows  show- 
ing sunlit  yellow  cornfields  and  high  trees,  and  its 
monumental  furniture,  and  the  disorder  of  Hilda's 
clothes  and  implements  humanising  it  and  individual- 
ising it  and  making  it  her  abode,  her  lair.  And  he 
glanced  prudently  at  Hilda  over  the  letter-paper.  She 
had  no  headache ;  it  was  obvious  that  she  had  no  head- 
ache. Yet  in  the  most  innocent  touching  way  she  had 
nodded  an  affirmative  to  his  question  about  the  head- 
ache. He  could  not  possibly  have  said  to  her :  "Look 
here,  you  know  you  haven't  got  a  headache."  She 
would  not  have  tolerated  the  truth.  The  truth  would 
have  made  her  transform  herself  instantly  into  a 
martyr,  and  him  into  a  brute.  She  would  have  stuck 
to  it,  even  if  the  seat  of  eternal  judgment  had  sud- 
denly been  installed  at  the  brassy  foot  of  the  bed, 
that  she  had  a  headache. 

It  was  with  this  mentality  (he  reflected,  assuming 
that  his  own  mentality  never  loved  anything  as  well 
as  truth)  that  he  had  to  live  till  one  of  them  expired. 
He  reminded  himself  wisely  that  the  woman's  code  is 
different  from  the  man's.  But  the  honesty  of  his  in- 
telligence rejected  such  an  explanation,  such  an  excuse. 
It  was  not  that  the  woman  had  a  different  code, — she 
had  no  code  except  the  code  of  the  utter  opportunist. 
To  live  with  her  was  like  living  with  a  marvellous 
wild  animal,  full  of  grace,  of  cunning,  of  magnificent 
passionate  gestures,  of  terrific  affection,  and  of  cruelty. 
She  was  at  once  indispensable  and  intolerable.  He 
felt  that  to  match  her  he  had  need  of  all  his  force,  all 


TAVY  MANSION  287 

his  prescience,  all  his  duplicity.  The  mystery  that 
had  lain  between  him  and  Hilda  for  a  year  was  in  the 
letter  within  two  feet  of  his  nose.  He  could  watch 
her  as  she  read,  study  her  face;  he  knew  that  he  was 
the  wiser  of  the  two;  she  was  at  a  disadvantage;  as 
regards  the  letter,  she  was  fighting  on  ground  chosen 
by  him;  and  yet  he  could  not  in  the  least  foresee  the 
next  ten  minutes, — whether  she  would  advance,  retreat, 
feint,  or  surrender. 

"Did  you  bring  your  dress-clothes?"  she  murmured, 
while  she  was  reading.  She  had  instructed  him  in  her 
letter  on  this  point. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  manfully,  striving  to  imply 
the  immense  untruth  that  he  never  stirred  from  home 
without  his  dress-clothes. 

She  continued  to  read,  frowning,  and  drawing  her 
heavy  eyebrows  still  closer  together.  Then  she  said: 

"Here!" 

And  passed  him  the  letter.  He  could  see  now  that 
she  was  becoming  excited. 

The  letter  was  from  the  legitimate  Mrs.  George 
Cannon,  and  it  said  that,  though  nothing  official  was 
announced  or  even  breathed,  her  solicitor  had  gath- 
ered from  a  permanent  and  important  underling  of 
the  Home  Office  that  George  Cannon's  innocence  was 
supposed  to  be  established,  and  that  the  Queen's  par- 
don would,  at  some  time  or  other,  be  issued.  It  was  an 
affecting  letter.  Edwin,  totally  ignorant  of  all  that 
had  preceded  it,  did  not  immediately  understand  its 
significance.  At  first  he  did  not  even  grasp  what  it 
was  about.  When  he  did  begin  to  comprehend  he  had 
the  sensation  of  being  deprived  momentarily  of  his 
bearings.  He  had  expected  everything  but  this.  That 
is  to  say,  he  had  absolutely  not  known  what  to  ex- 
pect. The  shock  was  severe. 


288  THESE  TWAIN 

" 'What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  he  questioned,  as  if  im- 
patient. 

Hilda  replied: 

"It's  about  George  Cannon.  It  seems  he  was  quite 
innocent  in  that  bank-note  affair.  It's  his  wife  who's 
been  writing  to  me  about  it.  I  don't  know  why  she 
should.  But  she  did,  and  of  course  I  had  to  reply." 

"You  never  said  anything  to  me  about  it." 

"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you,  dearest.  I  knew  you'd 
quite  enough  on  your  mind  with  the  works.  Besides, 
I'd  no  right  to  worry  you  with  a  thing  like  that. 
But  of  course  I  can  show  you  all  her  letters, — I've 
kept  them." 

Unanswerable!  Unanswerable!  Insincere,  concoct- 
ed, but  unanswerable!  The  implications  in  her 
spoken  defence  were  of  the  simplest  and  deepest  in- 
genuity, and  withal  they  hurt  him.  For  example,  the 
implication  that  the  strain  of  the  new  works  was 
breaking  him !  As  if  he  could  not  support  it,  and  had 
not  supported  it,  easily!  As  if  the  new  works  meant 
that  he  could  not  fulfil  all  his  duties  as  a  helpmeet! 
And  then  the  devilishly  adroit  plea  that  her  conceal- 
ment was  morally  necessary  since  he  ought  not  to  be 
troubled  with  any  result  of  her  pre-conjugal  life!  And 
finally  the  implication  that  he  would  be  jealous  of  the 
correspondence  and  might  exact  the  production  of  it! 
;.  ,.;  r.  He  now  callously  ignored  Cecil's  signals  for 
attention.  ..,  ,.,  ,.  He  knew  that  he  would  receive  no 
further  enlightenment  as  to  the  long  secrecy  of  the 
past  twelve  months.  His  fears  and  apprehensions  and 
infelicity  were  to  be  dismissed  with  those  few  words. 
They  would  never  be  paid  for,  redeemed,  atoned.  The 
grand  scenic  explanation  and  submission  which  was 
his  right  would  never  come.  Sentimentally,  he  was 
cheated,  and  had  no  redress.  And,  as  a  climax,  he 


TAVY  MANSION  289 

had  to  assume,  to  pretend,  that  justice  still  prevailed 
on  earth. 

"Isn't  it  awful!"  Hilda  muttered.  "Him  in  prison 
all  this  time !" 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  emotion 
increasing. 

He  nodded  in  sympathy. 

He  thought: 

"She'll  want  some  handling, — I  can  see  that !" 

He  too,  as  well  as  she,  imaginatively  comprehended 
the  dreadful  tragedy  of  George  Cannon's  false  im- 
prisonment. He  had  heart  enough  to  be  very  glad 
that  the  innocent  man  (innocent  at  any  rate  of  that 
one  thing)  was  to  be  released.  But  at  the  same  time 
he  could  not  stifle  a  base  foreboding  and  regret.  Look- 
ing at  his  wife,  he  feared  the  moment  when  George 
Cannon,  with  all  the  enormous  prestige  of  a  victim  in  a 
woman's  eyes,  should  be  at  large.  Yes,  the  lover  in 
him  would  have  preferred  George  Cannon  to  be  incar- 
cerated forever.  Had  he  not  heard,  had  he  not  read, 
had  he  not  seen  on  the  stage,  that  a  woman  never  for- 
gets the  first  man  ?  Nonsense,  all  that !  Invented  the- 
atrical psychology!  And  yet — if  it  was  true!  ..,  ,.:  .., 
Look  at  her  eyes ! 

"I  suppose  he  is  innocent?"  he  said  gruffly,  for  he 
mistrusted,  or  affected  to  mistrust,  the  doings  of  these 
two  women  together, — Cannon's  wife  and  Cannon's  vic- 
tim. Might  they  not  somehow  have  been  hoodwinked? 
He  knew  nothing,  no  useful  detail,  naught  that  was 
convincing — and  he  never  would  know!  Was  it  not 
astounding  that  the  bigamist  should  have  both  these 
women  on  his  side,  either  working  for  him,  or  weeping 
over  his  woes? 

"He  must  be  innocent,"  Hilda  answered,  thought- 
fully, in  a  breaking  voice. 


290  THESE  TWAIN 

"Where  is  he  now, — up  yon?" 

He  indicated  the  unvisited  heights  of  Dartmoor. 

"I  believe  so." 

"I  thought  they  always  shifted  'em  back  to  Lon- 
don before  they  released  'em." 

"I  expect  they  will  do.  They  may  have  moved  him 
already." 

His  mood  grew  soft,  indulgent.  He  conceded  that 
Jier  emotion  was  natural.  She  had  been  bound  up 
with  the  man.  Cannon's  admitted  guilt  on  the  one 
count,  together  with  all  that  she  had  suffered  through 
it,  only  intensified  the  poignancy  of  his  innocence  on 
the  other  count.  Contrary  to  the  general  assumption, 
you  must  be  sorrier  for  an  unfortunate  rascal  than 
for  an  unfortunate  good  man.  He  could  feel  all  that. 
He,  Edwin,  was  to  be  pitied;  but  nobody  save  him- 
self would  perceive  that  he  was  to  be  pitied.  His 
role  would  be  difficult,  but  all  his  pride  and  self-re- 
liance commanded  him  to  play  it  well,  using  every 
resource  of  his  masculine  skill,  and  so  prove  that  he 
was  that  which  he  believed  himself  to  be.  The  future 
would  be  all  right,  because  he  would  be  equal  to  the 
emergency.  Why  should  it  not  be  all  right?  His 
heart  in  kindliness  and  tenderness  drew  nearer  to 
Hilda's,  and  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  that  all  their 
guerilla  had  been  leading  up  to  this,  had  perhaps  been 
caused  by  this,  and  would  be  nobly  ended  by  it. 

Just  then  a  mysterious  noise  penetrated  the  room, 
growing  and  growing  until  it  became  a  huge  deafening 
din,  and  slowly  died  away. 

"I  expect  that's  breakfast,"  said  Edwin  in  a  casual 
tone. 

The  organism  of  the  English  household  was  func- 
tioning. Even  in  the  withdrawn  calm  of  the  bedroom 
they  could  feel  it  irresistibly  functioning.  The  gong 


TAVY  MANSION  291 

had  a  physical  effect  on  Cecil;  all  his  disappointment 
and  his*  sense  of  being  neglected  were  gathered  up  in 
his  throat  and  exploded  in  a  yell.  Hilda  took  him 
in  her  right  arm  and  soothed  him  and  called  him 
silly  names. 

Edwin  rose  from  the  bed,  and  as  he  did  so,  Hilda  re- 
tained him  with  her  left  hand,  and  pulled  him  very 
gently  towards  her,  inviting  a  kiss.  He  kissed  her. 
She  held  to  him.  He  could  see  at  a  distance  of  two 
inches  all  the  dark  swimming  colour  of  her  wet  eyes 
half  veiled  by  the  long  lashes.  And  he  could  feel  the 
soft  limbs  of  the  snuffling  baby  somewhere  close  to 
his  head. 

"You'd  better  stick  where  you  are,"  he  advised  her 
in  a  casual  tone. 

Hilda  thought: 

"Now  the  time's  come.  He'll  be  furious.  But  I 
can't  help  it." 

She   said: 

"Oh  no.  I  shall  be  quite  all  right  soon.  I'm  going 
to  get  up  in  about  half  an  hour." 

"But  then  how  shall  you  get  out  of  going  to  Prince- 
town?" 

"Oh!  Edwin!  I  must  go.  I  told  them  I  should 
go." 

He  was  astounded.  There  was  no  end  to  her  in- 
calculability, — no  end!  His  resentment  was  violent. 
He  stood  right  away  from  her. 

"  'Told  them  you  should  go' !"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
in  the  name  of  heaven  does  that  matter?  Are  you 
absolutely  mad?" 

She  stiffened.  Her  features  hardened.  In  the  midst 
of  her  terrible  relief  as  to  the  fate  of  George  Cannon 
and  of  her  equal  terrible  excitement  under  the  enig- 
matic and  irresistible  mesmerism  of  Dartmoor  prison, 


292  THESE  TWAIN 

she  was  desperate,  and  resentment  against  Edwin 
kindled  deep  within  her.  She  felt  the  brute  in  him. 
She  felt  that  he  would  never  really  understand.  She 
felt  all  her  weakness  and  all  his  strength,  but  she  was 
determined.  At  bottom  she  knew  well  that  her  weak- 
ness was  the  stronger. 

"I  must  go !"  she  repeated. 

"It's  nothing  but  morbidness!"  he  said  savagely. 
"Morbidness !  .  .  .  Well,  I  shan't  have  it.  I  shan't 
let  you  go.  And  that's  flat." 

She  kept  silent.  Frightfully  disturbed,  cursing 
women,  forgetting  utterly  in  a  moment  his  sublime  re- 
solves, Edwin  descended  to  breakfast  in  the  large, 
strange  house.  Existence  was  monstrous. 

And  before  the  middle  of  the  morning  Hilda  came 
into  the  garden  where  everyone  else  was  idling.  And 
Alicia  and  Janet  fondly  kissed  her.  She  said  her  head- 
ache had  vanished. 

"Sure  you  feel  equal  to  going  this  afternoon,  dear- 
est?" asked  Janet. 

"Oh  yes!"  Hilda  replied  lightly.  "It  will  do  me 
£ood." 

Edwin  was  helpless.  He  thought,  recalling  with 
vexation  his  last  firm  forbidding  words  to  Hilda  in 
the  bedroom: 

"Nobody  could  be  equal  to  this  emergency." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    PRISON 


HARRY  had  two  stout  and  fast  cobs  in  a  light  wag- 
onette. He  drove  himself,  and  Hilda  sat  by  his  side. 
The  driver's  boast  was  that  he  should  accomplish  the 
ten  miles,  with  a  rise  of  a  thousand  feet,  in  an  hour 
and  a  quarter.  A  hired  carriage  would  have  spent  two 
hours  over  the  journey. 

It  was  when  they  had  cleared  the  town,  and  were 
on  the  long  straight  rise  across  the  moor  towards 
Longford,  that  the  horses  began  to  prove  the  faith  that 
was  in  them,  eager,  magnanimous,  conceiving  grandly 
the  splendour  of  their  task  in  life,  and  irrepressibly 
performing  it  with  glory.  The  stones  on  the  loose-sur- 
faced road  flew  from  under  the  striding  of  their  hoofa 
into  the  soft,  dark  ling  on  either  hand.  Harry's  whip 
hovered  in  affection  over  their  twin  backs,  never  touch- 
ing them,  and  Harry  smiled  mysteriously  to  himself. 
He  did  not  wish  to  talk.  Nor  did  Hilda.  The  move- 
ment braced  and  intoxicated  her,  and  rendered  thought 
impossible.  She  brimmed  with  emotion,  like  a  vase  with 
some  liquid  unanalysable  and  perilous.  She  was  not 
happy,  she  was  not  unhappy;  the  sensation  of  her 
vitality  and  of  the  kindred  vitality  of  the  earth  and  the 
air  was  overwhelming.  She  would  have  prolonged  the 
journey  indefinitely,  and  yet  she  intensely  desired  the 
goal,  whatever  terrors  it  might  hold  for  her.  At  in- 
tervals she  pulled  up  the  embroidered  and  mono- 


294  THESE  TWAIN 

grammed  apron  that  slipped  slowly  down  over  her  skirt 
and  over  Harry's  tennis-flannels,  disclosing  two  rack- 
ets in  a  press  that  lay  between  them.  Perhaps  Harry 
was  thinking  of  certain  strokes  at  tennis. 

"Longford!"  ejaculated  Harry,  turning  his  head 
slightly  towards  the  body  of  the  vehicle,  as  they  rat- 
tled by  a  hamlet. 

Soon  afterwards  the  road  mounted  steeply, — five 
hundred  feet  in  little  more  than  a  mile,  and  the  horses 
walked,  but  they  walked  in  haste,  fiercely,  clawing  at 
the  road  with  their  forefeet  and  thrusting  it  behind 
them.  And  some  of  the  large  tors  emerged  clearly 
into  view — Cox  Tor,  the  Staple  Tors,  and  Great  Mis 
lifting  its  granite  above  them  and  beyond. 

They  were  now  in  the  midst  of  the  moor,  trotting 
fast  again.  Behind  and  before  them,  and  on  either 
side,  there  was  nothing  but  moor  and  sky.  The  sky, 
a  vast  hemisphere  of  cloud  and  blue  and  sunshine,  with 
a  complex  and  ever  elusive  geography  of  its  own,  dis- 
covered all  the  tints  of  heath  and  granite.  It  was  one 
of  those  days  when  every  tint  was  divided  into  ten 
thousand  shades,  and  each  is  richer  and  more  softly 
beautiful  than  the  others.  On  the  shoulder  of  Great 
Mis  rain  fell,  while  little  Vixen  Tor  glittered  with  mica 
points  in  the  sun.  Nothing  could  be  seen  over  the 
whole  moor  save  here  and  there  a  long-tailed  pony,  or 
a  tiny  cottage  set  apart  in  solitude.  And  the  yellow- 
ish road  stretched  forward,  wavily,  narrowing,  dis- 
appeared for  a  space,  reappeared  still  narrower,  disap- 
peared once  more,  reappeared  like  a  thin  meandering 
line,  and  was  lost  on  the  final  verge.  It  was  an  end- 
less road.  Impossible  that  the  perseverance  of  horses 
should  cover  it  yard  by  yard !  But  the  horses  strained 
onward,  seeing  naught  but  the  macadam  under  their 
noses.  Harry  checked  them  at  a  descent. 


THE  PRISON  295 

"Walkham  River!"  he  announced. 

They  crossed  a  pebbly  stream  by  a  granite  bridge. 

"Hut-circles !"  said  Harry  laconically. 

They  were  climbing  again. 

Edwin,  in  the  body  of  the  wagonette  with  Janet  and 
Alicia,  looked  for  hut-circles  and  saw  none ;  but  he  did 
not  care.  He  was  content  with  the  knowledge  that 
prehistoric  hut-circles  were  somewhere  there.  He  had 
never  seen  wild  England  before,  and  its  primeval  san- 
ity awoke  in  him  the  primeval  man.  The  healthiness 
and  simplicity  and  grandiose  beauty  of  it  created  the 
sublime  illusion  that  civilisation  was  worthy  to  be 
abandoned.  The  Five  Towns  seemed  intolerable  by 
their  dirt  and  ugliness,  and  by  the  tedious  intricacy 
of  their  existence.  Lithography, — you  had  but  to  think 
of  the  word  to  perceive  the  paltriness  of  the  thing! 
Riches,  properties,  proprieties,  all  the  safeties, — fu- 
tile! He  could  have  lived  alone  with  Hilda  on  the 
moor,  begetting  children  by  her,  watching  with  satis- 
faction the  growing  curves  of  her  fecundity — his  work, 
and  seeing  her  with  her  brood,  all  their  faces  beaten 
by  wind  and  rain  and  browned  with  sun.  He  had  a 
tremendous,  a  painful  longing  for  such  a  life.  His 
imagination  played  round  the  idea  of  it  with  volup- 
tuous and  pure  pleasure,  and  he  wondered  that  he  had 
never  thought  of  it  before.  He  felt  that  he  had  never 
before  peered  into  the  depths  of  existence.  And  thoagh 
he  knew  that  the  dream  of  such  an  arcadian  career 
was  absurd,  yet  he  seemed  to  guess  that  beneath  the 
tiresome  surfaces  of  life  in  the  Five  Towns  the  es- 
sence of  it  might  be  mystically  lived.  And  he  thought 
that  Hilda  would  be  capable  of  sharing  it  with  him, — 
nay,  he  knew  she  would! 

His  mood  became  gravely  elated,  even  optimistic. 
He  saw  that  he  had  worried  himself  about  nothing.  If 


296  THESE  TWAIN 

she  wanted  to  visit  the  prison,  let  her  visit  it!  Why 
not?  At  any  rate  he  should  not  visit  it.  He  had  an 
aversion  for  morbidity  almost  as  strong  as  his  aver- 
sion for  sentimentality.  But  her  morbidity  could  do 
no  harm.  She  could  not  possibly  meet  George  Can- 
non. The  chances  were  utterly  against  such  an  en- 
counter. Her  morbidity  would  cure  itself.  He  pitied 
her,  cherished  her,  and  in  thought  enveloped  her 
fondly  with  his  sympathetic  and  protective  wisdom. 

"North  Hessary,"  said  Harry,  pointing  with  his 
whip  to  a  jutting  tor  on  the  right  hand.  "We  go 
round  by  the  foot  of  it.  There  in  a  jiff!" 

Soon  afterwards  they  swerved  away  from  the  main 
road,  obeying  a  signpost  marked  "Princetown." 

"Glorious,  isn't  it?"  murmured  Janet,  after  a  long 
silence  which  had  succeeded  the  light  chatter  of  her- 
self and  Alicia  about  children,  servants,  tennis,  laun- 
dries. 

He  nodded,  with  a  lively  responsive  smile,  and 
glanced  at  Hilda's  mysterious  back.  Only  once  dur- 
ing the  journey  had  she  looked  round.  Alicia  with 
her  coarse  kind  voice  and  laugh  began  to  rally  him, 
saying  he  had  dozed. 

A  town,  more  granite  than  the  moor  itself,  grad- 
ually revealed  its  roofs  in  the  heart  of  the  moor.  The 
horses,  indefatigable,  quickened  their  speed.  Villas,  a 
school,  a  chapel,  a  heavy  church-tower  followed  in  suc- 
cession; there  were  pavements;  a  brake  full  of  excur- 
sionists had  halted  in  front  of  a  hotel;  holiday-makers 
— simple  folk  who  disliked  to  live  in  flocks — wandered 
in  ecstatic  idleness.  Concealed  within  the  warmth  of 
the  mountain  air,  there  pricked  a  certain  sharpness. 
All  about,  beyond  the  little  town,  the  tors  raised  their 
shaggy  flanks  surmounted  by  colossal  masses  of  stone 
that  recalled  the  youth  of  the  planet.  The  feel  of  the 


THE  PRISON  297 

world  was  stimulating  like  a  tremendous  tonic.  Then 
the  wagonette  passed  a  thick  grove  of  trees,  hiding  a 
house,  and  in  a  moment,  like  magic,  appeared  a  huge 
gated  archway  of  brick  and  stone,  and  over  it  the 
incised  words: 

PARCERE   SUBJECTIS 

"Stop!  Stop!  Harry,"  cried  [Alicia  shrilly. 
"What  are  you  doing?  You'll  have  to  go  to  the 
house  first." 

"Shall  I?"  said  Harry.  "All  right.  Two  thirty- 
five,  be  it  noted." 

The  vehicle  came  to  a  standstill,  and  instantly 
clouds  of  vapour  rose  from  the  horses. 

"Virgil!"  thought  Edwin,  gazing  at  the  archway, 
which  filled  him  with  sudden  horror,  like  an  obscenity 
misplaced. 


Less  than  ten  minutes  later,  he  and  Hilda  and  Alicia, 
together  with  three  strange  men,  stood  under  the  arch- 
way. Events  had  followed  one  another  quickly,  to 
Edwin's  undoing.  When  the  wagonette  drew  up  in 
the  grounds  of  the  Governor's  house,  Harry  Hesketh 
had  politely  indicated  that  for  his  horses  he  pre- 
ferred the  stables  of  a  certain  inn  down  the  road  to 
any  stables  that  hospitality  might  offer;  and  he  had 
driven  off,  Mrs.  Rotherwas  urging  him  to  return  with- 
out any  delay  so  that  tennis  might  begin.  The  Gov- 
ernor had  been  called  from  home,  and  in  his  absence 
a  high  official  of  the  prison  was  deputed  to  show  the 
visitors  through  the  establishment.  This  official  was 
the  first  of  the  three  strange  men;  the  other  two  were 
visitors.  Janet  had  said  that  she  would  not  go  over  the 
prison,  because  she  meant  to  play  tennis  and  wished 


298  THESE  TWAIN 

not  to  tire  herself.  Alicia  said  kindly  that  she  at  any 
rate  would  go  with  Hilda, — though  she  had  seen  it  all 
before,  it  was  interesting  enough  to  see  again. 

Edwin  had  thereupon  said  that  he  should  remain 
with  Janet.  But  immediately  Mrs.  Rotherwas,  whose 
reception  of  him  had  been  full  of  the  most  friendly 
charm,  had  shown  surprise,  if  not  pain.  What, — come 
to  Princetown  without  inspecting  the  wonderful  prison, 
when  the  chance  was  there  ?  Inconceivable !  Edwin 
might  in  his  blunt  Five  Towns  way  have  withstood 
Mrs.  Rotherwas,  but  he  could  not  withstand  Hilda, 
who,  frowning,  seemed  almost  ready  to  risk  a  public 
altercation  in  order  to  secure  his  attendance.  He  had 
to  yield.  To  make  a  scene,  even  a  very  little  one,  in 
the  garden  full  of  light  dresses  and  polite  suave  voices 
would  have  been  monstrous.  He  thought  of  all  that  he 
had  ever  heard  of  the  subjection  of  men  to  women. 
He  thought  of  Johnnie  and  of  Mrs.  Chris  Hamson, 
who  was  known  for  her  steely  caprices.  And  he 
thought  also  of  Jimmie  and  of  the  undesirable  Mrs. 
Jimmie,  wjho,  it  was  said,  had  threatened  to  love 
Jimmie  no  more  unless  he  took  her  once  a  week  without 
fail  to  the  theatre,  whatever  the  piece,  and  played 
cards  with  her  and  two  of  her  friends  on  all  the  other 
nights  of  the  week.  He  thought  of  men  as  a  sex  con- 
quered by  the  unscrupulous  and  the  implacable,  and  in 
this  mood,  superimposed  on  his  mood  of  disgust  at 
the  mere  sight  of  the  archway,  he  followed  the  high 
official  and  his  train.  Mrs.  Rotherwas's  last  words  were 
that  they  were  not  to  be  long.  But  the  official  said 
privately  to  the  group  that  they  must  at  any  rate 
approach  the  precincts  of  the  prison  with  all  ceremony, 
and  he  led  them  proudly,  with  an  air  of  ownership, 
round  to  the  main  entrance  where  the  wagonette  had 
first  stopped. 


THE  PRISON  299 

A  turnkey  on  the  other  side  of  the  immense  gates, 
using  a  theatrical  gesture,  jangled  a  great  bouquet 
of  keys;  the  portal  opened,  increasing  the  pride  of 
the  official,  and  the  next  moment  they  were  interned 
in  the  outer  courtyard.  The  moor  and  all  that  it 
meant  lay  unattainably  beyond  that  portal.  As  the 
group  slowly  crossed  the  enclosed  space,  with  the  grim 
Trades  of  yellow-brown  buildings  on  each  side  and 
vistas  of  further  gates  and  buildings  in  front,  the  offi- 
cial and  the  two  male  visitors  began  to  talk  together 
over  the  heads  of  Alicia  and  Hilda.  The  women  held 
close  to  each  other,  and  the  official  kept  upon  them 
a  chivalrous  eye ;  the  two  visitors  were  friends ;  Edwin 
was  left  out  of  the  social  scheme,  and  lagged  some- 
what behind,  like  one  who  is  not  wanted  but  who  can- 
not be  abandoned.  He  walked  self-conscious,  miser- 
able, resentful,  and  darkly  angry.  In  one  instant  the 
three  men  had  estimated  him,  decided  that  he  was  not 
of  their  clan  nor  of  any  related  clan,  and  ignored 
him.  Whereas  the  official  and  the  two  male  visitors, 
who  had  never  met  before,  grew  more  and  more  friendly 
each  minute.  One  said  that  he  did  not  know  So-and- 
So  of  the  Scots  Greys,  but  he  knew  his  cousin  Trevor 
of  the  Hussars,  who  had  in  fact  married  a  niece  of 
his  own.  And  then  another  question  about  somebody 
else  was  asked,  and  immediately  they  were  engaged 
in  following  clues,  as  explorers  will  follow  the  intricate 
mouths  of  a  great  delta  and  so  unite  in  the  main 
stream.  They  were  happy. 

Edwin  did  not  seriously  mind  that;  but  what  he  did 
mind  was  their  accent — in  those  days  termed  through- 
out the  Midlands  "lah-di-dah"  (an  onomatopoeic  des- 
cription), which,  falsifying  every  vowel  sound  in  the 
language,  and  several  consonants,  magically  created 
around  them  an  aura  of  utter  superiority  to  the  rest 


300  THESE  TWAIN 

of  the  world.  He  quite  unreasonably  hated  them,  and 
he  also  envied  them,  because  this  accent  was  their 
native  tongue,  and  because  their  clothes  were  not  cut 
like  his,  and  because  they  were  entirely  at  their  ease. 
Useless  for  the  official  to  throw  him  an  urbane  word 
now  and  then ;  neither  his  hate  nor  his  constraint  would 
consent  to  be  alleviated;  the  urbane  words  grew  less 
frequent.  Also  Edwin  despised  them  because  they 
were  seemingly  insensible  to  the  tremendous  horror  of 
the  jail  set  there  like  an  outrage  in  the  midst  of  prim- 
itive and  sane  Dartmoor.  "Yes,"  their  attitude  said. 
"This  is  a  prison,  ,one  of  the  institutions  necessary  to 
the  well  being  of  society,  like  a  workhouse  or  an  opera 
house, — an  interesting  sight !" 

A  second  pair  of  iron  gates  were  opened  with  the 
same  elaborate  theatricality  as  the  first,  and  while 
the  operation  was  being  done  the  official,  invigorated 
by  the  fawning  of  turnkeys,  conversed  with  Alicia, 
who  during  her  short  married  life  had  acquired  some 
shallow  acquaintance  with  the  clans,  and  he  even  drew 
a  reluctant  phrase  from  Hilda.  Then,  after  another 
open  space,  came  a  third  pair  of  iron  gates,  final  and 
terrific,  and  at  length  the  party  was  under  cover,  and 
even  the  sky  of  the  moor  was  lost.  Edwin,  bored,  dis- 
gusted, shamed,  and  stricken,  yielded  himself  proudly 
and  submissively  to  the  horror  of  the  experience. 


m 

Hilda  had  only  one  thought — would  she  catch  sight 
of  the  innocent  prisoner?  The  party  was  now  deeply 
engaged  in  a  system  of  corridors  and  stairways.  The 
official  had  said  that  as  the  tour  of  inspection  was  to 
be  short  he  would  display  to  them  chiefly  the  modern 
part  of  the  prison.  So  far  not  a  prisoner  had  been 


THE  PRISON  301 

seen,  and  scarcely  a  warder.  The  two  male  visitors 
were  scientifically  interested  in  the  question  of  escapes. 
Did  prisoners  ever  escape? 

"Never!"  said  the  official,  with  satisfaction. 

"Impossible,  I  suppose.  Even  when  they're  work- 
ing out  on  the  moor?  Warders  are  pretty  good 
shots,  eh?" 

"Practically  impossible,"  said  the  official.  "But 
there  is  one  way."  He  looked  up  the  stairway  on 
whose  landing  they  stood,  and  down  the  stairway,  and 
cautiously  lowered  his  voice.  "Of  course  what  I  tell 
you  is  confidential.  If  one  of  our  Dartmoor  fogs 
came  on  suddenly,  and  kind  friends  outside  had  hid- 
den a  stock  of  clothes  and  food  in  an  arranged  spot, 
then  theoretically — I  say,  theoretically — a  man  might 
get  away.  But  nobody  ever  has  done." 

"I  suppose  you  still  have  the  silent  system?" 

The  official  nodded. 

"Absolutely?" 

"Absolutely." 

"How  .awful  it  must  be !"  said  Alicia,  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

The  official  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  other 
two  males  murmured  reassuring  axioms  about  disci- 
pline. 

They  emerged  from  the  stairway  into  a  colossal  and 
resounding  iron  hall.  Round  the  emptiness  of  this 
interior  ran  galleries  of  perforated  iron  protected  from 
the  abyss  by  iron  balustrades.  The  group  stood  on 
the  second  of  the  galleries  from  the  stony  floor,  and 
there  were  two  galleries  above  them.  Far  away,  op- 
posite, a  glint  of  sunshine  had  feloniously  slipped  in, 
transpiercing  the  gloom,  and  it  lighted  a  series  of 
doors.  There  was  a  row  of  these  doors  along  every 
gallery.  Each  had  a  peep-hole,  a  key-hole  and  a  num- 


302  THESE  TWAIN 

ber.  The  longer  Hilda  regarded,  the  more  night- 
marishly  numerous  seemed  the  doors.  The  place  was 
like  a  huge  rabbit-hutch  designed  for  the  claustration 
of  countless  rabbits.  Across  the  whole  width  and 
length  of  the  hall,  and  at  the  level  of  the  lowest  gal- 
lery, was  stretched  a  great  net. 

"To  provide  against  suicides  ?"  suggested  one  of 
the  men. 

"Yes,"  said  the  official. 

"A   good   idea." 

When  the  reverberation  of  the  words  had  ceased,  a 
little  silence  ensued.  The  ear  listened  vainly  for  the 
slightest  sound.  In  the  silence  the  implacability  of 
granite  walls  and  iron  reticulations  reigned  over  the 
accursed  vision,  stultifying  the  soul. 

"Are  these  cells  occupied?"  asked  Alicia  timidly. 

"Not  yet,  Mrs.  Hesketh.  It's  too  soon.  A  few 
are." 

Hilda  thought: 

"He  may  be  here, — behind  one  of  those  doors."  Her 
heart  was  liquid  with  compassion  and  revolt.  "No," 
she  assured  herself.  "They  must  have  taken  him 
away  already.  It's  impossible  he  should  be  here.  He's 
innocent." 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  one  of  the  cells?" 
the  official  suggested. 

A  warder  appeared,  and,  with  the  inescapable  jangle 
of  keys,  opened  a  door.  The  party  entered  the  cell, 
ladies  first,  then  the  official  and  his  new  acquaintances ; 
then  Edwin,  trailing.  The  cell  was  long  and  narrow, 
fairly  lofty,  bluish-white  colour,  very  dimly  lighted  by  a 
tiny  grimed  window  high  up  in  a  wall  of  extreme  thick- 
ness. The  bed  lay  next  the  long  wall ;  except  the  bed,  a 
stool,  a  shelf,  and  some  utensils,  there  was  nothing  to 
furnish  the  horrible  nakedness  of  the  cell.  One  of  the 


THE  PRISON  303 

visitors  picked  up  an  old  book  from  the  shelf.  It  was  a 
Greek  Testament.  The  party  seemed  astonished  at  this 
evidence  of  culture  among  prisoners,  of  the  height  from 
which  a  criminal  may  have  fallen. 

The  official  smiled. 

"They  often  ask  for  such  things  on  purpose,"  said 
he.  "They  think  it's  effective.  They're  very  naive, 
you  know,  at  bottom." 

"This  very  cell  may  be  his  cell,"  thought  Hilda. 
"He  may  have  been  here  all  these  months,  years,  know- 
ing he  was  innocent.  He  may  have  thought  about  me 
in  this  cell."  She  glanced  cautiously  at  Edwin,  but 
Edwin  would  not  catch  her  eye. 

They  left.  On  the  way  to  the  workshops,  they  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  parts  of  the  prison,  used  during 
the  Napoleonic  wars,  incredibly  dark,  frowsy,  like 
catacombs. 

"We  don't  use  this  part — unless  we're  very  full  up," 
said  the  official,  and  he  contrasted  it  with  the  bright, 
spacious,  healthy  excellences  of  the  hall  which  they 
had  just  quitted,  to  prove  that  civilisation  never  stood 
still. 

And  then  suddenly,  at  the  end  of  a  passage,  a  door 
opened  and  they  were  in  the  tailors'  shop,  a  large  ir- 
regular apartment  full  of  a  strong  stench  and  of  squat- 
ted and  grotesque  human  beings.  The  human  beings, 
for  the  most  part,  were  clothed  in  a  peculiar  brown 
stuff,  covered  with  broad  arrows.  The  dress  consisted 
of  a  short  jacket,  baggy  knickerbockers,  black  stock- 
ings, and  coloured  shoes.  Their  hair  was  cut  so  short 
that  they  had  the  appearance  of  being  bald,  and  their 
great  ears  protruded  at  a  startling  angle  from  the  sides 
of  those  smooth  heads.  They  were  of  every  age,  yet 
they  all  looked  alike,  ridiculous,  pantomimic,  appall- 
ing. Some  gazed  with  indifference  at  the  visitors; 


304  THESE  TWAIN 

others  seemed  oblivious  of  the  entry.  They  all  stitched 
on  their  haunches,  in  the  stench,  under  the  surveillance 
of  eight  armed  warders  in  blue. 

"How  many?"  asked  the  official  mechanically. 

"Forty-nine,  sir,"  said  a  warder. 

And  Hilda  searched  their  loathsome  and  vapid  faces 
for  the  face  of  George  Cannon.  He  was  not  there. 
She  trembled, — whether  with  relief  or  with  disappoint- 
ment she  knew  not.  She  was  agonised,  but  in  her  tor- 
ture she  exulted  that  she  had  come. 

No  comment  had  been  made  in  the  workshop,  the 
official  having  hinted  that  silence  was  usual  on  such 
occasions.  But  in  a  kind  of  antechamber — one  of 
those  amorphous  spaces,  serving  no  purpose  and  re- 
sembling nothing,  which  are  sometimes  to  be  found  be- 
tween definable  rooms  and  corridors  in  a  vast  building 
imperfectly  planned — the  party  halted  in  the  midst  of 
a  discussion  as  to  discipline.  The  male  visitors,  ex- 
cept Edwin,  showed  marked  intelligence  and  detach- 
ment; they  seemed  to  understand  immediately  how  it 
was  that  forty-nine  ruffians  could  be  trusted  to  squat 
on  their  thighs  and  stitch  industriously  and  use  scis- 
sors and  other  weapons  for  hours  without  being  chained 
to  the  ground;  they  certainly  knew  something  of  the 
handling  of  men.  The  official,  triumphant,  stated  that 
every  prisoner  had  the  right  of  personal  appeal  to  the 
Governor  every  day. 

"They  come  with  their  stories  of  grievances,"  said 
he,  tolerant  and  derisive. 

"Which  often  aren't  true?" 

"Which  are  never  true,"  said  the  official  quietly. 
"Never!  They  are  always  lies — always!  .  .  .  Shows 
the  material  we  have  to  deal  with!"  He  gave  a  short 
laugh. 


THE  PRISON  305 

"Really !"  said  one  of  the  men,  rather  pleased  and  ex- 
cited by  this  report  of  universal  lying. 

"I  suppose,"  Edwin  blurted  out,  "you  can  tell  for 
certain  when  they  aren't  speaking  the  truth?" 

Everybody  looked  at  him  surprised,  as  though  the 
dumb  had  spoken.  The  official's  glance  showed  some 
suspicion  of  sarcasm  and  a  tendency  to  resent  it. 

"We  can,"  he  answered  shortly,  commanding  his 
features  to  a  faint  smile.  "And  now  I  wonder  what 
Mrs.  Rotherwas  will  be  saying  if  I  don't  restore  you 
to  her."  It  was  agreed  that  regard  must  be  had  for 
Mrs.  Rotherwas's  hospitable  arrangements,  though  the 
prison  was  really  very  interesting  and  would  repay 
study. 

They  entered  a  wide  corridor — one  of  two  that  met 
at  right-angles  in  the  amorphous  space — leading  in 
the  direction  of  the  chief  entrance.  From  the  end  of 
this  corridor  a  file  of  convicts  was  approaching  in 
charge  of  two  warders  with  guns.  The  official  offered 
no  remark,  but  held  on.  Hilda,  falling  back  near  to 
Edwin  in  the  procession,  was  divided  between  a  dread- 
ful fear  and  a  hope  equally  dreadful.  Except  in  the 
tailors'  shop,  these  were  the  only  prisoners  they  had 
seen,  and  they  appeared  out  of  place  in  the  half-free- 
dom of  the  corridor ;  for  nobody  could  conceive  a  pris- 
oner save  in  a  cell  or  shop,  and  these  were  moving  in  a 
public  corridor,  unshackled. 

Then  she  distinguished  George  Cannon  among  them. 
He  was  the  third  from  the  last.  She  knew  him  by  his 
nose  and  the  shape  of  his  chin,  and  by  his  walk,  though 
there  was  little  left  of  his  proud  walk  in  the  desolat- 
ing, hopeless  prison-shuffle  which  was  the  gait  of  all 
six  convicts.  His  hair  was  iron-grey.  All  these  de- 
tails she  could  see  and  be  sure  of  in  the  distance  of  the 


306  THESE  TWAIN 

dim  corridor.  She  no  longer  had  a  stomach;  it  had 
gone,  and  yet  she  felt  a  horrible  nausea. 

She  cried  out  to  herself: 

"Why  did  I  come?  Why  did  I  come?  I  am  al- 
ways doing  these  mad  things.  Edwin  was  right.  Why 
do  I  not  listen  to  him?" 

The  party  of  visitors  led  by  the  high  official,  and 
the  file  of  convicts  in  charge  of  armed  warders,  were 
gradually  approaching  one  another  in  the  wide  corri- 
dor. It  seemed  to  Hilda  that  a  fearful  collision  was 
imminent,  and  that  something  ought  to  be  done.  But 
nobody  among  the  visitors  did  anything  or  seemed  to 
be  disturbed.  Only  they  had  all  fallen  silent;  and  in 
the  echoing  corridor  could  be  heard  the  firm  steps  of 
the  male  visitors  accompanying  the  delicate  tripping 
of  the  women,  and  the  military  tramp  of  the  warders 
with  the  confused  shuffling  of  the  convicts. 

"Has  he  recognised  me?"  thought  Hilda,  wildly. 

She  hoped  that  he  had  and  that  he  had  not.  She 
recalled  with  the  most  poignant  sorrow  the  few  days 
of  their  union,  their  hours  of  intimacy,  his  kisses,  her 
secret  realisation  of  her  power  over  him,  and  of  his  pas- 
sion. She  wanted  to  scream: 

"That  man  there  is  as  innocent  as  any  of  you,  and 
soon  the  whole  world  will  know  it!  He  never  com- 
mitted any  crime  except  that  of  loving  me  too  much. 
He  could  not  do  without  me,  and  so  I  was  his  ruin.  It 
is  horrible  that  he  should  be  here  in  this  hell.  He  must 
be  set  free  at  once.  The  Home  Secretary  knows  he 
is  innocent,  but  they  are  so  slow.  How  can  anyone 
bear  that  he  should  stop  here  one  instant  longer?" 

But  she  made  no  sound.  The  tremendous  force  of 
an  ancient  and  organised  society  kept  her  lips  closed 
and  her  feet  in  a  line  with  the  others.  She  thought  in 
despair : 


THE  PRISON  307 

"We  are  getting  nearer,  and  I  cannot  meet  him.  I 
shall  drop."  She  glanced  at  Edwin,  as  if  for  help,  but 
Edwin  was  looking  straight  ahead. 

Then  a  warder,  stopping,  ejaculated  with  the  harsh 
brevity  of  a  drill-serjeant: 

"Halt!" 

The  file  halted. 

"Right  turn!" 

The  six  captives  turned,  with  their  faces  close 
against  the  wall  of  the  corridor,  obedient,  humiliated, 
spiritless,  limp,  stooping.  Their  backs  presented  the 
most  ridiculous  aspect;  all  the  calculated  grotes- 
querie  of  the  surpassingly  ugly  prison  uniform  was  ac- 
centuated as  they  stood  thus,  a  row  of  living  scare- 
crows, who  knew  that  they  had  not  the  right  even  to 
look  upon  free  men.  Every  one  of  them  except  George 
Cannon  had  large  protuberant  ears  that  completed 
the  monstrosity  of  their  appearance. 

The  official  gave  his  new  acquaintances  a  satisfied 
glance,  as  if  saying: 

"That  is  the  rule  by  which  we  manage  these  chance 
encounters." 

The  visitors  went  by  in  silence,  instinctively  edging 
away  from  the  captives.  And  as  she  passed,  Hilda 
lurched  very  heavily  against  Edwin,  and  recovered  her- 
self. Edwin  seized  her  arm  near  the  shoulder,  and 
saw  that  she  was  pale.  The  others  were  in  front. 

Behind  them  they  could  hear  the  warder: 

"Left  turn!     March!" 

And  the  shuffling  and  the  tramping  recommenced. 


rv 

In  the  garden  of  the  Governor's  house  tennis  had 
already  begun  when  the  official  brought  back  his  con- 


308  THESE  TWAIN 

voy.  Young  Truscott  and  Mrs.  Rotherwas  were  pitted 
against  Harry  Hesketh  and  a  girl  of  eighteen  who 
possessed  a  good  wrist  but  could  not  keep  her  head. 
Harry  was  watching  over  his  partner,  quietly  advis- 
ing her  upon  the  ruses  of  the  enemy,  taking  the  more 
difficult  strokes  for  her,  and  generally  imparting  to 
her  the  quality  which  she  lacked.  Harry  was  fully 
engaged ;  the  whole  of  his  brain  and  body  was  at  strain ; 
he  let  nothing  go  by;  he  missed  no  chance,  and  within 
the  laws  of  the  game  he  hesitated  at  no  stratagem. 
And  he  was  beating  young  Truscott  and  Mrs.  Rother- 
was, while  an  increasing  and  polite  audience  looked  on. 
To  the  entering  party,  the  withdrawn  scene,  lit  by 
sunshine,  appeared  as  perfect  as  a  stage-show,  with 
its  trees,  lawn,  flowers,  toilettes,  the  flying  balls,  the 
grace  of  the  players,  and  the  grey  solidity  of  the  gov- 
ernor's house  in  the  background. 

Alicia  ran  gawkily  to  Janet,  who  had  got  a  box  of 
chocolates  from  somewhere,  and  one  of  the  men  fol- 
lowed her,  laughing.  Hilda  sat  apart;  she  was  less 
pale.  Edwin  remained  cautiously  near  her.  He  had 
not  left  her  side  since  she  lurched  against  him  in  the 
corridor.  He  knew ;  he  had  divined  that  that  which  he 
most  feared  had  come  to  pass, — the  supreme  punish- 
ment of  Hilda's  morbidity.  He  had  not  definitely  rec- 
ognised George  Cannon,  for  he  was  not  acquainted  with 
him,  and  in  the  past  had  only  once  or  twice  by  chance 
caught  sight  of  him  in  the  streets  of  Bursley  or  Turn- 
hill.  But  he  had  seen  among  the  six  captives  one  who 
might  be  he,  and  who  certainly  had  something  of  the 
Five  Towns  look.  Hilda's  lurch  told  him  that  by 
vindictiveness  of  fate  George  Cannon  was  close  to 
them. 

He  had  ignored  his  own  emotion.  The  sudden  tran- 
sient weight  of  Hilda's  body  had  had  a  strange  moral 


THE  PRISON  309 

effect  upon  him.  "This,"  he  thought,  "is  the  burden 
I  have  to  bear.  This,  and  not  lithography,  nor  riches, 
is  my  chief  concern.  She  depends  on  me.  I  am  all 
she  has  to  stand  by."  The  burden  with  its  immense 
and  complex  responsibilities  was  sweet  to  his  inmost 
being;  and  it  braced  him  and  destroyed  his  resentment 
against  her  morbidity.  His  pity  was  pure.  He  felt 
that  he  must  live  more  nobly — yes,  more  heroically — 
than  he  had  been  living;  that  all  irritable  pettiness 
must  drop  away  from  him,  and  that  his  existence  in 
her  regard  must  have  simplicity  and  grandeur.  The 
sensation  of  her  actual  weight  stayed  with  him.  He 
had  not  spoken  to  her;  he  dared  not;  he  had  scarcely 
met  her  eyes;  but  he  was  ready  for  any  emergency. 
Every  now  and  then,  in  the  garden,  Hilda  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  house,  as  though  her  gaze 
could  pierce  the  house  and  see  the  sinister  prison  be- 
yond. 

The  set  ended,  to  Harry  Hesketh's  satisfaction ;  and, 
another  set  being  arranged,  he  and  Mrs.  Rotherwas, 
athletic  in  a  short  skirt  and  simple  blouse,  came  walk- 
ing, rather  flushed  and  breathless,  round  the  garden 
with  one  or  two  others,  including  Harry's  late  part- 
ner. The  conversation  turned  upon  the  great  South 
Wales  colliery  strike  against  a  proposed  reduction 
of  wages.  Mrs.  Rotherwas'  husband  was  a  colliery 
proprietor  near  Monmouth,  and  she  had  just  received 
a  letter  from  him.  Everyone  sympathised  with  her 
and  her  husband,  and  nobody  could  comprehend  the 
wrongheadedness  of  the  miners,  except  upon  the  sup- 
position that  they  had  been  led  away  by  mischievous 
demagogues.  As  the  group  approached,  the  timid 
young  girl,  having  regained  her  nerve,  was  exclaiming 
with  honest  indignation:  "The  leaders  ought  to  be 
shot,  and  the  men  who  won't  go  down  the  pits  ought  to 


310  THESE  TWAIN 

be  -forced  to  go  down  and  made  to  work."  And  she 
picked  at  fluff  on  her  yellow  frock.  Edwin  feared  an 
uprising  from  Hilda,  but  naught  happened.  Mrs. 
Rotherwas  spoke  about  tea,  though  it  was  rather  early, 
and  they  all,  Hilda  as  well,  wandered  to  a  large  yew 
tree  under  which  was  a  table;  through  the  pendant 
branches  of  the  tree  the  tennis  could  be  watched  as 
through  a  screen. 

The  prison  clock  tolled  the  hour  over  the  roofs  of 
the  house,  and  Mrs.  Rotherwas  gave  the  definite  signal 
for  refreshments. 

"You're  exhausted,"  she  said  teasingly   to   Harry. 

"You'll  see,"  said  Harry. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Rotherwas  delightfully  relented.  "You're 
a  dear,  and  I  love  to  watch  you  play.  I'm  sure  you 
could  give  Mr.  Truscott  half  fifteen." 

"Think  so?"  said  Harry,  pleased,  and  very  conscious 
that  he  was  living  fully. 

"You  see  what  it  is  to  have  an  object  in  life,  Hes- 
keth,"  Edwin  remarked  suddenly. 

Harry  glanced  at  him  doubtfully,  and  yet  with  a 
certain  ingenuous  admiration.  At  the  same  time  a 
white  ball  rolled  near  the  tree.  He  ducked  under  the 
trailing  branches,  returned  the  ball,  and  moved  slowly 
towards  the  court. 

"Alicia  tells  me  you're  very  old  friends  of  theirs," 
said  Mrs.  Rotherwas,  agreeably,  to  Hilda. 

Hilda  smiled  quietly. 

"Yes,  we  are,  both  of  us." 

Who  could  have  guessed,  now,  that  her  condition  was 
not  absolutely  normal? 

"Charming  people,  aren't  they,  the  Heskeths?"  said 
Mrs.  Rotherwas.  "Perfectly  charming.  They're  an 
ideal  couple.  And  I  do  like  their  house,  it's  so  deli- 
ciously  quaint,  isn't  it,  Mary?" 


THE  PRISON  311 

"Lovely,"  agreed  the  young  girl. 

It  was  an  ideal  world,  full  of  ideal  beings. 

Soon  after  tea  the  irresistible  magnetism  of  Alicia's 
babies  drew  Alicia  off  the  moor,  and  with  her  the 
champion  player,  Janet,  Hilda  and  Edwin.  Mrs. 
Rotherwas  let  them  go  with  regret,  adorably  expressed. 
Harry  would  have  liked  to  stay,  but  on  the  other  hand 
he  was  delightfully  ready  to  yield  to  Alicia. 


On  arriving  at  Tavy  Mansion  Hilda  announced  that 
she  should  lie  down.  She  told  Edwin,  in  an  exhausted 
but  friendly  voice,  that  she  needed  only  rest,  and  he 
comprehended,  rightly,  that  he  was  to  leave  her.  Not 
a  word  was  said  between  them  as  to  the  events  within 
the  prison.  He  left  her,  and  spent  the  time  before 
dinner  with  Harry  Hesketh,  who  had  the  idea  of  occu- 
pying their  leisure  with  a  short  game  of  bowls,  for 
which  it  was  necessary  to  remove  the  croquet  hoops. 

Hilda  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  Soon  afterwards 
both  Alicia,  with  an  infant,  and  Janet  came  to  see  her. 
Had  Janet  been  alone,  Hilda  might  conceivably  in  her 
weakness  have  surrendered  the  secret  to  her  in  ex- 
change for  that  soft  and  persuasive  sympathy  of  which 
Janet  was  the  mistress,  but  the  presence  of  Alicia  made 
a  confidence  impossible,  and  Hilda  was  glad.  She 
plausibly  fibbed  to  both  sisters,  and  immediately  after- 
wards the  household  knew  that  Hilda  would  not  appear 
at  dinner.  There  was  not  the  slightest  alarm  or 
apprehension,  for  the  affair  explained  itself  in  the 
simplest  way, — Hilda  had  had  a  headache  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  had  been  wrong  to  go  out;  she  was  now 
merely  paying  for  the  indiscretion.  She  would  be 
quite  recovered  the  next  day.  Alicia  whispered  a  word 


312  THESE  TWAIN 

to  her  husband,  who,  besides,  was  not  apt  easily  to 
get  nervous  about  anything  except  his  form  at  games. 
Edwin  also,  with  his  Five  Towns  habit  of  mind,  soberly 
belittled  the  indisposition.  The  household  remained 
natural  and  gay.  When  Edwin  went  upstairs  to  pre- 
pare for  dinner,  moving  very  quietly,  his  wife  had 
her  face  towards  the  wall  and  away  from  the  light. 
He  came  round  the  bed  to  look  at  her. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  murmured. 

"Want  nothing  at  all?"  he  asked,  with  nervous 
gruffness. 

She  shook  her  head. 

Very  impatiently  she  awaited  his  departure,  exas- 
perated more  than  she  had  ever  been  by  his  precise 
deliberation  over  certain  details  of  his  toilet.  As  soon 
as  he  was  gone  she  began  to  cry;  but  the  tears  came 
so  gently  from  her  eyes  that  the  weeping  was  as  pas- 
sive, as  independent  of  volition,  as  the  escape  of  blood 
from  a  wound. 

She  had  a  grievance  against  Edwin.  At  the  crisis  in 
the  prison  she  had  blamed  herself  for  not  submitting 
to  his  guidance,  but  now  she  had  reacted  against  all 
such  accusations,  and  her  grievance  amounted  to  just 
an  indictment  of  his  commonsense,  his  quietude,  his 
talent  for  keeping  out  of  harm's  way,  his  lack  of  vio- 
lent impulses,  his  formidable  respectability.  She  was 
a  rebel;  he  was  not.  He  would  never  do  anything 
wrong,  or  even  perilous.  Never,  n^er  would  he  find 
himself  in  need  of  a  friend's  help.  He  would  always 
direct  his  course  so  that  society  would  protect  him. 
He  was  a  firm  part  of  the  structure  of  society ;  he  was 
the  enemy  of  impulses.  When  he  foresaw  a  danger, 
the  danger  was  always  realised:  she  had  noticed  that, 
and  she  resented  it.  He  was  infinitely  above  the  George 
Cannons  of  the  world.  He  would  be  incapable  of 


THE  PRISON  313 

bigamy,  incapable  of  being  caught  in  circumstances 
which  could  bring  upon  him  suspicion  of  any  crime 
whatever.  Yet  for  her  the  George  Cannons  had  a 
quality  which  he  lacked,  which  he  could  never  possess, 
and  which  would  have  impossibly  perfected  him — a 
quality  heroic,  foolish,  martyr-like!  She  was  almost 
ready  to  decide  that  his  complete  social  security  was 
due  to  cowardice  and  resulted  in  self-righteousness! 
.  .  .  Could  he  really  feel  pity  as  she  felt  it,  for  the 
despised  and  rejected,  and  a  hatred  of  injustice  equal 
to  hers? 

These  two  emotions  were  burning  her  up.  Again 
and  again,  ceaselessly,  her  mind  ran  round  the  circle 
of  George  Cannon's  torture  and  the  callousness  of  so- 
ciety. He  had  sinned,  and  she  had  loathed  him;  but 
both  his  sin  and  her  loathing  were  the  fruit  of  passion. 
He  had  been  a  proud  man,  and  she  had  shared  his 
pride ;  now  he  was  broken,  unutterably  humiliated,  and 
she  partook  of  his  humiliation.  The  grotesque  and 
beaten  animal  in  the  corridor  was  all  that  society  had 
left  of  him  who  had  once  inspired  her  to  acts  of  devo- 
tion, who  could  make  her  blush,  and  to  satisfy  whom 
she  would  recklessly  spend  herself.  The  situation  was 
intolerable,  and  yet  it  had  to  be  borne.  But  surely 
it  must  be  ended!  Surely  at  the  latest  on  the  morrow 
the  prisoner  must  be  released,  and  soothed  and  rein- 
stated! .  .  .  Pardoned?  No!  A  pardon  was  an  in- 
sult, worse  than  an  insult.  She  would  not  listen  to  the 
word.  Society  might  use  it  for  its  own  purposes ;  but 
she  would  never  use  it.  Pardon  a  man  after  deliber- 
ately and  fiendishly  achieving  his  ruin?  She  could 
have  laughed. 

Exhaustion  followed,  tempering  emotion  and  reduc- 
ing it  to  a  profound  despairing  melancholy  that  was 
stirred  at  intervals  by  frantic  revolt.  The  light  failed. 


314  THESE  TWAIN 

The  windows  became  vague  silver  squares.  Outside 
fowls  clucked,  a  horse's  hoof  clattered  on  stones ;  serv- 
ants spoke  to  each  other  in  their  rough,  good-natured 
voices.  The  peace  of  the  world  had  its  effect  on 
her,  unwilling  though  she  was.  Then  there  was  a 
faint  tap  at  the  door.  She  made  no  reply,  and  shut 
her  eyes.  The  door  gently  opened,  and  someone  tripped 
delicately  in.  She  heard  movements  at  the  washstand. 
.  .  .  One  of  the  maids.  A  match  was  struck.  The 
blinds  were  stealthily  lowered,  the  curtains  drawn; 
garments  were  gathered  together,  and  at  last  the 
door  closed  again. 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  room  was  very  dimly 
illuminated.  A  night-light,  under  a  glass  hemisphere 
of  pale  rose,  stood  on  the  dressing-table.  By  magic, 
order  had  been  restored;  a  glinting  copper  ewer  of 
hot  water  stood  in  the  whiteness  of  the  basin  with  a 
towel  over  it;  the  blue  blinds,  revealed  by  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  red  curtains,  stirred  in  the  depths  of  the 
windows ;  each  detail  of  the  chamber  was  gradually 
disclosed,  and  the  chamber  was  steeped  in  the  first 
tranquillity  of  the  night.  Not  a  sound  could  be  heard. 
Through  the  depths  of  her  bitterness,  there  rose  slowly 
the  sensation  of  the  beauty  of  existence  even  in  its 
sadness.  .  .  . 

A  long  time  afterwards  it  occurred  to  her  in  the 
obscurity  that  the  bed  was  tumbled.  She  must  have 
turned  over  and  over.  The  bed  must  be  arranged  be- 
fore Edwin  came.  He  had  to  share  it.  After  all,  he 
had  committed  no  fault;  he  was  entirely  innocent. 
She  and  fate  between  them  had  inflicted  these  difficul- 
ties and  these  solicitudes  upon  him.  He  had  said  little 
or  nothing,  but  he  was  sympathetic.  When  she  had 
stumbled  against  him  she  had  felt  his  upholding  mas- 
culine strength.  He  was  dependable,  and  would  be  de- 


THE  PRISON  313 

pendable  to  the  last.  The  bed  must  be  creaseless  when 
he  came;  this  was  the  least  she  could  do.  She  arose. 
Very  faintly  she  could  descry  her  image  in  the  mirror 
of  the  great  wardrobe — a  dishevelled  image.  Forget- 
ting the  bed,  she  bathed  her  face,  and,  unusually,  took 
care  to  leave  the  washstand  as  tidy  as  the  maid  had 
left  it.  Then,  having  arranged  her  hair,  she  set  about 
the  bed.  It  was  not  easy  for  one  person  unaided  to 
make  a  wide  bed.  Before  she  had  finished  she  heard 
footsteps  outside  the  door.  She  stood  still.  Then  she 
heard  Edwin's  voice: 

"Don't  trouble,  thanks.     I'll  take  it  in  myself." 

He  entered,  carrying  a  tray,  and  shut  the  door,  and 
instantly  she  busied  herself  once  more  with  the  bed. 

"My  poor  girl,"  he  said  with  quiet  kindliness,  "what 
are  you  doing?" 

"I'm  just  putting  the  bed  to  rights,"  she  answered, 
and  almost  with  a  single  movement  she  slid  back  into 
the  bed.  "What  have  you  got  there?" 

"I  thought  I'd  ask  for  some  tea  for  you,"  he  said. 
"Nearly  the  whole  blessed  household  wanted  to  come 
and  see  you,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it." 

She  could  not  say:  "It's  very  nice  of  you."  But 
she  said,  simply  to  please  him:  "I  should  like  some 
tea." 

He  put  the  tray  on  the  dressing-table ;  then  lit  three 
candles,  two  on  the  dressing-table  and  one  on  the  night- 
table,  and  brought  the  tray  to  the  night-table. 

He  himself  poured  out  the  tea,  and  offered  the  cup. 
She  raised  herself  on  an  elbow. 

"Did  you  recognise  him?"  she  muttered  suddenly, 
after  she  had  blown  on  the  tea  to  cool  it. 

Under  ordinary  conditions  Edwin  would  have 
replied  to  such  an  unprepared  question  with  another, 
petulant  and  impatient :  "Recognise  who  ?"  pretending 


316  THESE  TWAIN 

that  he  did  not  understand  the  allusion.  But  now  he 
made  no  pretences. 

"Not  quite,"  he  said.  "But  I  knew  at  once.  I  could 
see  which  of  them  it  must  be." 

The  subject  at  last  opened  between  them,  Hilda  felt 
an  extraordinary  solace  and  relief.  He  stood  by  the 
bedside,  in  black,  with  a  great  breastplate  of  white,  his 
hair  rough,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  She  thought  he 
had  a  fine  face ;  she  thought  of  him  as,  at  such  a  time, 
her  superior ;  she  wanted  powerfully  to  adopt  his  atti- 
tude, to  believe  in  everything  he  said.  They  were 
talking  together  in  safety,  quietly,  gravely,  amicably, 
withdrawn  and  safe  in  the  strange  house — he  benevolent 
and  assuaging  and  comprehending,  she  desiring  the 
balm  which  he  could  give.  It  seemed  to  her  that  they 
had  never  talked  to  each  other  in  such  tones. 

"Isn't  it  awful — awful?"  she  exclaimed. 

"It  is,"  said  Edwin,  and  added  carefully,  tenderly: 
"I  suppose  he  is  innocent." 

She  might  have  flown  at  him:  "That's  just  like  you 
— to  assume  he  isn't!"  But  she  replied: 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  it.  I  say — I  want  you  to  read  all 
the  letters  I've  had  from  Mrs.  Cannon.  I've  got  them 
here.  They're  in  my  bag  there.  Read  them  now. 
Of  course  I  always  meant  to  show  them  to  you." 

"All  right,"  he  agreed,  drew  a  chair  to  the  dressing- 
table  where  the  bag  was,  found  the  letters,  and  read 
them.  She  waited,  as  he  read  one  letter,  put  it  down, 
read  another,  laid  it  precisely  upon  the  first  one,  with 
his  terrible  exactitude  and  orderliness,  and  so  on 
through  the  whole  packet. 

"Yes,"  said  he  at  the  end,  "I  should  say  he's  innocent 
this  time,  right  enough." 

"But  something  ought  to  be  done !"  she  cried.  "Don't 
you  think  something  ought  to  be  done,  Edwin?" 


THE  PRISON  317 

"Something  has  been  done.  Something  is  being 
done." 

"But  something  else!" 

He  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  be  done,"  he  said. 

He  came  towards  her,  and  stood  over  her  again,  and 
the  candle  on  the  night-table  lighted  his  chin  and  the 
space  between  his  eyelashes  and  his  eyebrows.  He 
timidly  touched  her  hair,  caressing  it.  They  were  ab- 
solutely at  their  ease  together  in  the  intimacy  of  the 
bedroom.  In  her  brief  relations  with  George  Cannon 
there  had  not  been  time  to  establish  anything  like  such 
intimacy.  With  George  Cannon  she  had  always  had 
the  tremors  of  the  fawn. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Wait.  That's  all.  It's  not  the  slightest  use  trying 
to  hurry  these  public  departments.  You  can't  do  it. 
You  only  get  annoyed  for  nothing  at  all.  You  can 
take  that  from  me,  my  child." 

He  spoke  with  such  delicate  persuasiveness,  such  an 
evident  desire  to  be  helpful,  that  Hilda  was  convinced 
and  grew  resigned.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he 
had  made  a  tremendous  resolve  which  had  raised  him 
above  the  Edwin  she  knew.  She  thought  she  had 
hitherto  misjudged  and  underrated  him. 

"I  wanted  to  explain  to  you  about  that  ten  pounds," 
she  said. 

"That's  all  right— that's  all  right,"  said  he  hastily. 

"But  I  must  tell  you.  You  saw  Mrs.  Cannon's  let- 
ter asking  me  for  money.  Well,  I  borrowed  the  ten 
pounds  from  Janet.  So  of  course  I  had  to  pay  it  back, 
hadn't  I?" 

"How  is  Janet?"  he  asked  in  a  new,  lighter  tone. 

"She  seems  to  be  going  on  splendidly,  don't  you 
think  so?" 


318  [THESE  TWAIN 

"Well  then,  we'll  go  home  to-morrow." 

"Shall  we?" 

She  lifted  her  arms  and  he  bent.  She  was  crying. 
In  a  moment  she  was  sobbing.  She  gave  him  violent 
kisses  amid  her  sobs,  and  held  him  close  to  her  until 
the  fit  passed.  Then  she  said,  in  her  voice  reduced  to 
that  of  a  child: 

"What  time's  the  train?" 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE    GHOST 


IT  was  six-thirty.  The  autumn  dusk  had  already 
begun  to  fade;  and  in  the  damp  air,  cold,  grimy,  and 
vaporous,  men  with  scarves  round  their  necks  and  girls 
with  shawls  over  their  heads,  or  hatted  and  even  gloved, 
were  going  home  from  work  past  the  petty  shops  where 
sweets,  tobacco,  fried  fish,  chitterlings,  groceries,  and 
novelettes  were  sold  among  enamelled  advertisements 
of  magic  soaps.  In  the  feeble  and  patchy  illumination 
of  the  footpaths,  which  left  the  middle  of  the  streets 
and  the  upper  air  all  obscure,  the  chilled,  preoccupied 
people  passed  each  other  rapidly  like  phantoms,  emerg- 
ing out  of  one  mystery  and  disappearing  into  another. 
Everywhere,  behind  the  fanlights  and  shaded  windows 
of  cottages,  domesticity  was  preparing  the  warm  re- 
laxations of  the  night.  Amid  the  streets  of  little  build- 
I  ^s  the  lithographic  establishment,  with  a  yellow  ob- 
long here  and  there  illuminated  in  its  dark  fa9ades, 
stood  up  high,  larger  than  reality,  more  important  and 
tyrannic,  one  of  the  barracks,  one  of  the  prisons,  one 
of  the  money-works  where  a  single  man  or  a  small 
group  of  men  by  brains  and  vigour  and  rigour  ex- 
ploited the  populace. 

Edwin,  sitting  late  in  his  private  office  behind  those 
fa9ades,  was  not  unaware  of  the  sensation  of  being  an 
exploiter.  By  his  side  on  the  large  flat  desk  lay  a  copy 

319 


320  THESE  TWAIN 

of  the  afternoon's  Signal  containing  an  account  of 
the  breaking  up  by  police  of  an  open-air  meeting  of 
confessed  anarchists  on  the  previous  day  at  Manches- 
ter. Manchester  was,  and  is  still,  physically  and 
morally,  very  close  to  the  Five  Towns,  which  respect 
it  more  than  they  respect  London.  An  anarchist  meet- 
ing at  Manchester  was  indeed  an  uncomfortable  por- 
tent for  the  Five  Towns.  Enormous  strikes,  like  civil 
wars  at  stalemate,  characterised  the  autumn  as  they 
had  characterised  the  spring,  affecting  directly  or 
indirectly  every  industry,  and  weakening  the  prestige 
of  government,  conventions,  wealth,  and  success.  Ed- 
win was  successful.  It  was  because  he  was  successful 
that  he  was  staying  late  and  that  a  clerk  in  the  outer 
office  was  staying  late  and  that  windows  were  illumi- 
nated here  and  there  in  the  fa9ades.  Holding  in  his 
hand  the  wage-book,  he  glanced  down  the  long  column 
of  names  and  amounts.  Some  names  conveyed  nothing 
to  him;  but  most  of  them  raised  definite  images  in  his 
mind — of  big  men,  roughs,  decent  clerks  with  wrist- 
bands, undersized  pale  machinists,  intensely  respectable 
skilled  artisans  and  daughtsmen,  thin  ragged  lads, 
greasy,  slatternly,  pale  girls,  and  one  or  two  fat 
women, — all  dirty,  and  working  with  indifference  in 
dirt.  Most  of  them  kowtowed  to  him;  s^-ne  did  not; 
some  scowled  askance.  But  they  were  all  depend^t 
on  him.  Not  one  of  them  but  would  be  prodigiously 
alarmed  and  inconvenienced — to  say  nothing-  of  going 
hungry — if  it  he  did  not  pay  wages  the  next  morning. 
The  fact  was  he  could  distribute  ruin  with  a  gesture 
and  nobody  could  bring  him  to  book.  .  .  . 

Something  wrong!  Under  the  influence  of  strikes 
and  anarchist  meetings  he  felt  with  foreboding  and  even 
with  a  little  personal  alarm  that  something  was  wrong. 
Those  greasy,  slatternly  girls,  for  instance,  with  their 


THE  GHOST  321 

coarse  charm  and  their  sexuality, — they  were  under- 
paid. They  received  as  much  as  other  girls,  on  pot- 
banks,  perhaps  more,  but  they  were  underpaid.  What 
chance  had  they?  He  was  getting  richer  every  day, 
and  safer  (except  for  the  vague  menace)  ;  yet  he  could 
not  appreciably  improve  their  lot,  partly  for  business 
reasons,  partly  because  any  attempt  to  do  so  would 
bring  the  community  about  his  ears  and  he  would  be 
labelled  as  a  doctrinaire  and  a  fool,  and  partly  be- 
cause his  own  commonsense  was  against  such  a  move. 
Not  those  girls,  not  his  works,  not  this  industry  and 
that,  was  wrong.  All  was  wrong.  And  it  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  any  future  period  when  all  would 
not  be  wrong.  Perfection  was  a  desolating  thought. 
Nevertheless  the  struggle  towards  it  was  instinctive 
and  had  to  go  on.  The  danger  was  (in  Edwin's  eyes) 
of  letting  that  particular  struggle  monopolise  one's 
energy.  Well,  he  would  not  let  it.  He  did  a  little 
here  and  a  little  there,  and  he  voted  democratically 
and  in  his  heart  was  most  destructively  sarcastic  about 
toryism;  and  for  the  rest  he  relished  the  adventure  of 
existence,  and  took  the  best  he  conscientiously  could, 
and  thought  pretty  well  of  himself  as  a  lover  of  his 
fellowmen.  If  he  was  born  to  be  a  master,  he  would 
be  one,  and  not  spend  his  days  in  trying  to  overthrow 
mastery.  He  was  tired  that  evening,  he  had  a  slight 
headache,  he  •  certainly  had  worries ;  but  he  was  not 
unhappy  on  the  throbbing,  tossing  steamer  of  human- 
ity. Nobody  could  seem  less  adventurous  than  he 
seemed,  with  his  timidities  and  his  love  of  modera- 
tion, comfort,  regularity  and  security.  Yet  his  nos- 
trils would  sniff  to  the  supreme  and  all-embracing  ad- 
venture. 

He  heard  Hilda's  clear  voice  in  the   outer   office: 
"Mr.  Clayhanger  in  there?"  and  the  clerk's  somewhat 


THESE  TWAIN 

nervously  agitated  reply,  repeating  several  times  in 
eager  affirmative.  And  he  himself,  the  master,  though 
still  all  alone  in  the  sanctum,  at  once  pretended  to 
be  very  busy. 

Her  presence  would  thus  often  produce  an  excita- 
tion in  the  organism  of  the  business.  She  was  so 
foreign  to  it,  so  unsoiled  by  it,  so  aloof  from  it,  so 
much  more  gracious,  civilised,  enigmatic  than  any- 
thing that  the  business  could  show!  And,  fundament- 
ally, she  was  the  cause  of  the  business ;  it  was  all  for 
her ;  it  existed  with  its  dirt,  noise,  crudity,  strain,  and 
eternal  effort  so  that  she  might  exist  in  her  elegance, 
her  disturbing  femininity,  her  restricted  and  deep 
affections,  her  irrational  capriciousness,  and  her 
strange,  brusque  commonsense.  The  clerks  and  some 
of  the  women  felt  this ;  Big  James  certainly  felt  it ;  and 
Edwin  felt  it,  and  denied  it  to  himself,  more  than  any- 
body. There  was  no  economic  justice  in  the  arrange- 
ment. She  would  come  in  veiled,  her  face  mysterious 
behind  the  veil,  and  after  a  few  minutes  she  would 
delicately  lift  her  gloved  fingers  to  the  veil,  and  raise 
it,  and  her  dark,  pale,  vivacious  face  would  be  dis- 
closed. "Here  I  am !"  'And  the  balance  was  even,  her 
debt  paid!  That  was  how  it  was. 

In  the  month  that  had  passed  since  the  visit  to 
Dartmoor,  Edwin,  despite  his  resolve  to  live  heroically 
and  philosophically,  had  sometimes  been  forced  into 
the  secret  attitude:  "This  woman  will  kill  me,  but 
without  her  I  shouldn't  be  interested  enough  to  live." 
He  was  sometimes  morally  above  her  to  the  point  of 
priggishness,  and  sometimes  incredibly  below  her;  but 
for  the  most  part  living  in  a  different  dimension.  She 
had  heard  nothing  further  from  Mrs.  Cannon;  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  bigamist's  fate,  though  more  than 
once  she  had  written  for  news.  Her  moods  were  un- 


THE  GHOST 

predictable  and  disconcerting,  and  as  her  moods  con- 
stituted the  chief  object  of  Edwin's  study  the  effect  on 
him  was  not  tranquillising.  At  the  start  he  had  risen 
to  the  difficulty  of  the  situation;  but  he  could  not 
permanently  remain  at  that  height,  and  the  situation 
had  apparently  become  stationary.  His  exasperations, 
both  concealed  and  open,  were  not  merely  unworthy  of 
a  philosopher,  they  were  unworthy  of  a  common  man. 
"Why  be  annoyed?"  he  would  say  to  himself.  But  he 
was  annoyed.  "The  tone — the  right  tone!"  he  would 
remind  himself.  Surely  he  could  remember  to  com- 
mand his  voice  to  the  right  tone  ?  But  no !  He  could 
not.  He  could  infallibly  remember  to  wind  up  his 
watch,  but  he  could  not  remember  that.  Moreover,  he 
felt,  as  he  had  felt  before,  on  occasions,  that  no  amount 
of  right  tone  would  keep  their  relations  smooth,  for 
the  reason  that  principles  were  opposed.  Could  she  not 
see?  .  .  .  Well,  she  could  not.  There  she  was,  entire, 
unalterable — impossible  to  chip  inconvenient  pieces  off 
her — you  must  take  her  or  leave  her;  and  she  could 
not  see,  or  she  would  not — which  in  practice  was  the 
same  thing. 

And  yet  some  of  the  most  exquisite  moments  of  their 
union  had  occurred  during  that  feverish  and  unquiet 
month — moments  of  absolute  surrender  and  devotion 
on  her  part,  of  protective  love  on  his;  and  also  long 
moments  of  peace.  With  the  early  commencement  of 
autumn,  all  the  family  had  resumed  the  pursuit  of 
letters  with  a  certain  ardour.  A  startling  feminist 
writer,  and  the  writer  whose  parentage  and  whose  very 
name  lay  in  the  Five  Towns,  who  had  re-created  the 
East  and  whose  vogue  was  a  passion  among  the  let- 
tered— both  these  had  published  books  whose  success 
was  extreme  and  genuine.  And  in  the  curtained  gas-lit 
drawing-room  of  a  night  Hilda  would  sit  rejoicing  over 


324  THESE  TWAIN 

the  triumphant  satire  of  the  woman-novelist,  and  Ed- 
win and  George  would  lounge  in  impossible  postures, 
each  mesmerised  by  a  story  of  the  Anglo-Indian;  and 
between  chapters  Edwin  might  rouse  himself  from  the 
enchantment  sufficiently  to  reflect:  "How  indescrib- 
ably agreeable  these  evenings  are!"  And  ten  to  one 
he  would  say  aloud,  with  false  severity :  "George ! 
Bed!"  And  George,  a  fine  judge  of  genuineness  in 
severity,  would  murmur  carelessly:  "All  right!  I'm 
going!"  And  not  go. 

And  now  Edwin  in  the  office  thought: 

"She's  come  to  fetch  me  away." 

He  was  gratified.  But  he  must  not  seem  to  be 
gratified.  The  sanctity  of  business  from  invasion  had 
to  be  upheld.  He  frowned,  feigning  more  diligently 
than  ever  to  be  occupied.  She  came  in,  with  that  air 
at  once  apologetic  and  defiant  that  wives  have  in  af- 
fronting the  sacred  fastness.  Nobody  could  have 
guessed  that  she  had  ever  been  a  business  woman,  arriv- 
ing regularly  at  just  such  an  office  every  morning, 
shorthand-writing,  twisting  a  copying-press,  filing, 
making  appointments.  Nobody  could  have  guessed 
that  she  had  ever  been  in  business  for  herself,  and  had 
known  how  sixpence  was  added  to  sixpence  and  a  week's 
profit  lost  in  an  hour.  All  such  knowledge  had  appar- 
ently dropped  from  her  like  an  excrescence,  had  van- 
ished like  a  temporary  disfigurement,  and  she  looked 
upon  commerce  with  the  uncomprehending,  careless, 
and  yet  impressed  eyes  of  a  young  girl. 

"Hello,  missis!"  he  exclaimed  casually. 

Then  George  came  in.  Since  the  visit  to  Dartmoor 
Hilda  had  much  increased  her  intimacy  with  George, 
spending  a  lot  of  time  with  him,  walking  with  him,  and 
exploring  in  a  sisterly  and  reassuring  manner  his  most 
private  life.  George  liked  it,  but  it  occasionally  irked 


THE  GHOST  325 

him  and  he  would  give  a  hint  to  Edwin  that  mother 
needed  to  be  handled  at  times. 

"You  needn't  come  in  here,  George,"  said  Hilda. 

"Well,  can  I  go  into  the  engine-house?"  George 
suggested.  Edwin  had  always  expected  that  he  would 
prefer  the  machine-room.  But  the  engine-house  was 
his  haunt,  probably  because  it  was  dirty,  fiery,  and 
stuffy. 

"No,  you  can't,"  said  Edwin.  "Pratt's  gone  by 
this,  and  it's  shut  up." 

"No,  it  isn't.     Pratt's  there." 

"All  right." 

"Shut  the  door,  dear,"  said  Hilda. 

"Hooray!"  George  ran  off  and  banged  the  glass 
door. 

Hilda,  glancing  by  habit  at  the  unsightly  details 
of  the  deteriorating  room,  walked  round  the  desk. 
With  apprehension  Edwin  saw  resolve  and  pertur- 
bation in  her  face.  He  was  about  to  say:  "Look 
here,  infant,  I'm  supposed  to  be  busy."  But  he  re- 
frained. 

Holding  out  a  letter  which  she  nervously  snatched 
from  her  bag,  Hilda  said: 

"I've  just  had  this — by  the  afternoon  post.  Read 
it." 

He  recognise'd  at  once  the  sloping  handwriting; 
but  the  paper  was  different;  it  was  a  mere  torn 
half-sheet  of  very  cheap  notepaper.  He  read:  "Dear 
Mrs.  Clayhanger.  Just  a  line  to  say  that  my  husband 
is  at  last  discharged.  It  has  been  weary  waiting. 
We  are  together,  and  I  am  looking  after  him.  With 
renewed  thanks  for  your  sympathy  and  help.  Believe 
me,  Sincerely  yours,  Charlotte  M.  Cannon."  The  sig- 
nature was  scarcely  legible.  There  was  no  address,  no 
date. 


326  THESE  TWAIN 

Edwin's  first  flitting  despicable  masculine  thought 
was:  "She  doesn't  say  anything  about  that  ten 
pounds !"  It  fled.  He  was  happy  in  an  intense  relief 
that  affected  all  his  being.  He  said  to  himself :  "Now 
that's  over,  we  can  begin  again." 

"Well,"  he  murmured.  "That's  all  right.  Didn't  I 
always  tell  you  it  would  take  some  time?  .  .  .  That's 
all  right." 

He  gazed  at  the  paper,  waving  it  in  his  hand  as  he 
held  it  by  one  corner.  He  perceived  that  it  was  the 
letter  of  a  jealous  woman,  who  had  got  what  she 
wanted  and  meant  to  hold  it,  and  entirely  to  herself; 
and  his  mood  became  somewhat  sardonic. 

"Very  curt,  isn't  it?"  said  Hilda  strangely.  "And 
after  all  this  time,  too !" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  turning  his  head  sideways  to 
catch  her  eyes. 

"That  letter,"  he  said  in  a  voice  as  strange  as 
Hilda's,  "that  letter  is  exactly  what  it  ought  to  be. 
It  could  not  possibly  have  been  better  turned.  .  .  . 
You  don't  want  to  keep  it,  I  suppose,  do  you?" 

"No,"  she  muttered. 

He  tore  it  into  very  small  pieces,  and  dropped  them 
into  the  waste-paper-basket  beneath  the  desk. 

"And  burn  all  the  others,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Edwin,"  after  a  pause. 

"Yes?" 

"Don't  you  think  George  ought  to  know?  Don't 
you  think  one  of  us  ought  to  tell  him, — either  you  or 
me?  You  might  tell  him?" 

"Tell  him  what?"  Edwin  demanded  sharply,  pushing 
back  his  chair. 

"WeB,  everything!" 

He  glt>wer£d.  ,He  could  feel  himself  glowering.  He 
could  feel  the  justifiable  anger  animating  him. 


THE  GHOST  327 

"Certainly  not!"  he  enunciated  resentfully,  master- 
fully, overpoweringly.  "Certainly  not !" 

"But  supposing  he  hears  from  outsiders?" 

"You  needn't  begin  supposing." 

"But  he's  bound  to  have  to  know  sometime." 

"Possibly.  But  he  isn't  going  to  know  now,  any 
road!  Not  with  my  consent.  The  thing's  absolute 
madness." 

Hilda  almost  whispered: 

"Very  well,  dear.    If  you  think  so." 

"I  do  think  so." 

He  suddenly  felt  very  sorry  for  her.  He  was  ready 
to  excuse  her  astounding  morbidity  as  a  consequence 
of  extreme  spiritual  tribulation.  He  added  with 
brusque  good-nature: 

"And  so  will  you,  in  the  morning,  my  child." 

"Shall  you  be  long?" 

"No.  I  told  you  I  should  be  late.  If  you'll  run 
off,  my  chuck,  I'll  undertake  to  be  after  you  in  half 
an  hour." 

"Is  your  headache  better?" 

"No.     On  the  other  hand,  it  isn't  worse." 

He  gazed  fiercely  at  the  wages-book. 

She  bent  down. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  murmured  tearfully. 

As  he  kissed  her,  and  as  she  pressed  against  him,  he 
absorbed  and  understood  all  the  emotions  through 
which  she  had  passed  and  was  passing,  and  from  him 
to  her  was  transmitted  an  unimaginable  tenderness 
that  shamed  and  atoned  for  the  inclemency  of  his  re- 
fusals. He  was  very  happy.  He  knew  that  he  would 
not  do  another  stroke  of  work  that  night,  but  still  he 
must  pretend  to  do  some.  Playfully,  without  rising, 
he  drew  down  her  veil,  smacked  her  gently  on  the  back, 
and  indicated  the  door. 


THESE  TWAIN 

"I  have  to  call  at  Clara's  about  that  wool  for  Mag- 
gie," she  said,  with  courage.  His  fingering  of  her  veil 
had  given  her  extreme  pleasure. 

"I'll  bring  the  kid  up,"  he  said. 

"Will  you?" 

She  departed,  leaving  the  door  unlatched. 

n 

A  draught  from  the  outer  door  swung  wide-open  the 
unlatched  door  of  Edwin's  room. 

"What  are  doors  for?"  he  muttered,  pleasantly  im- 
patient; then  he  called  aloud: 

"Simpson.    Shut  the  outer  door — and  this  one,  too." 

There  was  no  answer.  He  arose  and  went  to  the 
outer  office.  Hilda  had  passed  through  it  like  an 
arrow.  Simpson  was  not  there.  But  a  man  stood 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece ;  he  held  at  full  spread 
a  copy  of  the  Signal,  which  concealed  all  the  upper 
part  of  him  except  his  fingers  and  the  crown  of  his 
head.  Though  the  gas  had  been  lighted  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  it  must  have  been  impossible  for  him  to 
read  by  it,  since  it  shone  through  the  paper.  He  low- 
ered the  newspaper  with  a  rustle  and  looked  at  Edwin. 
He  was  a  big,  well-dressed  man,  wearing  a  dark  grey 
suit,  a  blue  Melton  overcoat,  and  a  quite  new  glossy 
''boiler-end"  felt  hat.  He  had  a  straight,  prominent 
nose,  and  dark,  restless  eyes,  set  back;  his  short  hair 
was  getting  grey,  but  not  his  short  black  moustache. 

"Were  you  waiting  to  see  me?"  Edwin  said,  in  a 
defensive,  half-hostile  tone.  The  man  might  be  a  be- 
lated commercial  traveller  of  a  big  house — some  of 
those  fellows  considered  themselves  above  all  laws;  on 
the  other  hand  he  might  be  a  new;  customer  in  a 
hurry. 


THE  GHOST  329 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  deep,  full  and  yet  uncer- 
tain voice.  "The  clerk  said  you  couldn't  be  disturbed, 
and  asked  me  to  wait.  Then  he  went  out." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?  It's  really  after  hours, 
but  some  of  us  are  working  a  bit  late." 

The  man  glanced  at  the  outer  door,  which  Edwin 
was  shutting,  and  then  at  the  inner  door,  which  ex- 
posed Edwin's  room. 

"I'm  George  Cannon,"  he  said,  advancing  a  step,  as 
it  were  defiantly. 

For  an  instant  Edwin  was  frightened  by  the  sudden 
melodrama  of  the  situation.  Then  he  thought: 

"I  am  up  against  this  man.     This  is  a  crisis." 

And  he  became  almost  agreeably  aware  of  his  own 
being.  The  man  stood  close  to  him,  under  the  gas, 
with  all  the  enigmatic  quality  of  another  being.  He 
could  perceive  now — at  any  rate  he  could  believe — 
that  it  was  George  Cannon.  Forgetful  of  what  the 
man  had  suffered,  Edwin  felt  for  him  nothing  but  the 
instinctive  inimical  distrust  of  the  individual  who  has 
never  got  at  loggerheads  with  society  for  the  individual 
who  once  and  for  always  has.  To  this  feeling  was 
added  a  powerful  resentment  of  the  man's  act  in  com- 
ing— especially  unannounced — to  just  him,  the  hus- 
band of  the  woman  he  had  dishonoured.  It  was  a 
monstrous  act — and  doubtless  an  act  characteristic 
of  the  man.  It  was  what  might  have  been  expected. 
The  man  might  have  been  innocent  of  a  particular 
crime,  might  have  been  falsely  imprisoned;  but  what 
had  he  originally  been  doing,  with  what  rascals  had 
he  been  consorting,  that  he  should  be  even  suspected 
of  crime?  George  Cannon's  astonishing  presence,  so 
suddenly  after  his  release,  at  the  works  of  Edwin 
Clayhanger,  was  unforgiveable.  Edwin  felt  an  impulse 
to  say  savagely: 


330  THESE    TWAIN 

"Look  here.  You  clear  out.  You  understand  Eng- 
lish, don't  you?  Hook  it." 

But  he  had  not  the  brutality  to  say  it.  Moreover, 
the  clerk  returned,  carrying,  full  to  the  brim,  the  tin 
water-receptacle  used  for  wetting  the  damping-brush 
of  the  copying-press. 

"Will  you  come  in,  please?"  said  Edwin  curtly. 
"Simpson,  I'm  engaged." 

The  two  men  went  into  the  inner  room. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Edwin  grimly. 

George  Cannon,  with  a  firm  gesture,  planted  his  hat 
on  the  flat  desk  between  them.  He  looked  round  be- 
hind him  at  the  shut  glazed  door. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  said  Edwin.  "Nobody  can 
hear — unless  you  shout." 

He  gazed  curiously  but  somewhat  surreptitiously  at 
George  Cannon,  trying  to  decide  whether  it  was  pos- 
sible to  see  in  him  a  released  convict.  He  decided  that 
it  was  not  possible.  George  Cannon  had  a  shifty,  but 
not  a  beaten,  look;  many  men  had  a  shifty  look.  His 
hair  was  somewhat  short,  but  so  was  the  hair  of  many 
men,  if  not  of  most.  He  was  apparently  in  fair  health ; 
assuredly  his  constitution  had  not  been  ruined.  And 
if  his  large,  coarse  features  were  worn,  marked  with 
tiny  black  spots,  and  seamed  and  generally  ravaged, 
they  were  not  more  ravaged  than  the  features  of  nu- 
merous citizens  of  Bursley  aged  about  fifty  who  saved 
money,  earned  honours,  and  incurred  the  envy  of  pre- 
sumably intelligent  persons.  And  as  he  realised  all 
this,  Edwin's  retrospective  painful  alarm  as  to  what 
might  have  happened  if  Hilda  had  noticed  George 
Cannon  in  the  outer  office  lessened  until  he  could  dismiss 
it  entirely.  By  chance  she  had  ignored  Cannon,  per- 
haps scarcely  seeing  him  in  her  preoccupied  passage, 
perhaps  taking  him  vaguely  for  a  customer;  but  sup- 


THE  GHOST  331 

posing  she  Jidd  recognised  him,  what  then?  There 
would  have  been  an  awkward  scene — nothing  more. 
Awkward  scenes  do  not  kill;  their  effect  is  transient. 
Hilda  would  have  had  to  behave,  and  would  have  be- 
haved, with  severe  commonsense.  He,  Edwin  himself, 
would  have  handled  the  affair.  A  demeanour  matter- 
of-fact  and  impassible  was  what  was  needed.  After 
all,  a  man  recently  out  of  prison  was  not  a  wild  beast, 
nor  yet  a  freak.  Hundreds  of  men  were  coming  out 
of  prisons  every  day.  .  .  .  He  should  know  how  to 
deal  with  this  man — not  pharisaically,  not  cruelly,  not 
unkindly,  but  still  with  a  clear  indication  to  the  man 
of  his  reprehensible  indiscretion  in  being  where  he  then 
was. 

"Did  she  recognise  me — down  there — Dartmoor?" 
asked  George  Cannon,  without  any  preparing  of  the 
ground,  in  a  deep,  trembling  voice;  and  as  he  spoke  a 
flush  spread  slowly  over  his  dark  features. 

"Er — yes !"  answered  Edwin,  and  his  voice  also 
trembled. 

"I  wasn't  sure,"  said  George  Cannon.  "We  were 
halted  before  I  could  see.  And  I  daren't  look  round — • 
I  should  ha'  been  punished.  I've  been  punished  before 
now  for  looking  up  at  the  sky  at  exercise."  He  spoke 
more  quickly  and  then  brought  himself  up  with  a  snort. 
"However,  I've  not  come  all  the  way  here  to  talk  prison, 
so  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  one  of  your  re- 
formers." 

In  his  weak  but  ungoverned  nervous  excitement,  from 
which  a  faint  trace  of  hysteria  was  not  absent,  he  now 
seemed  rather  more  like  an  ex-convict,  despite  his  good 
clothes.  He  had  become,  to  Edwin's  superior  self- 
control,  suddenly  wistful.  And  at  the  same  time,  the 
strange  opening  question,  and  its  accent,  had  stirred 
Edwin,  and  he  saw  with  remorse  how  much  finer  had 


THESE  TWAIN 

been  Hilda's  morbid  and  violent  pity  than  his  own 
harsh  commonsense  and  anxiety  to  avoid  emotion.  The 
man  in  good  clothes  moved  him  more  than  the  convict 
had  moved  him.  He  seemed  to  have  received  vision,  and 
he  saw  not  merely  the  unbearable  pathos  of  George 
Cannon,  but  the  high  and  heavenly  charitableness  of 
Hilda,  which  he  had  constantly  douched,  and  his  own 
common  earthliness.  He  was  exceedingly  humbled. 
And  he  also  thought,  sadly:  "This  chap's  still  at- 
tached to  her.  Poor  devil !" 

"What  have  you  come  for?"  he  enquired. 

George  Cannon  cleared  his  throat.  Edwin  waited, 
in  fear,  for  the  avowal.  He  could  make  nothing  out 
of  the  visitor's  face;  its  expression  was  anxious  and 
drew  sympathy,  but  there  was  something  in  it  which 
chilled  the  sympathy  it  invoked  and  which  seemed  to 
say:  "I  shall  look  after  myself."  It  yielded  naught. 
You  could  be  sorry  for  the  heart  within,  and  yet 
could  neither  like  nor  esteem  it.  "Punished  for  look- 
ing up  at  the  sky."  .  .  .  Glimpses  of  prison  life 
presented  themselves  to  Edwin's  imagination.  He 
saw  George  Cannon  again  halted  and  turning  like 
a  serf  to  the  wall  of  the  corridor.  And  this  man 
opposite  to  him,  close  to  him  in  the  familiar  room, 
was  the  same  man  as  the  serf!  Was  he  the  same 
man?  .  .  .  Inscrutable,  the  enigma  of  that  exist- 
ence whose  breathing  was  faintly  audible  across 
the  desk. 

"You  know  all  about  it  —  about  my  affair,  of 
course  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Edwin.  "I  expect  you  know  how  much 
I  know." 

"I'm  an  honest  man — you  know  that.  I  needn't  be- 
gin by  explaining  that  to  you." 

Edwin  nerved  himself: 


THE  GHOST  333 

"You  weren't  honest  towards  Hilda,  if  it  comes  to 
that." 

He  used  his  wife's  Christian  name,  to  this  man  with 
whom  he  had  never  before  spoken,  naturally,  inevitably. 
He  would  not  say  "my  wife."  To  have  said  "my  wife" 
would  somehow  have  brought  some  muddiness  upon 
that  wife,  and  by  contact  upon  her  husband. 

"When  I  say  'honest'  I  mean — you  know  what  I  mean. 
About  Hilda— I  don't  defend  that.  Only  I  couldn't 
help  myself.  ...  I  daresay  I  should  do  it  again." 
Edwin  could  feel  his  eyes  smarting  and  he  blinked,  and 
yet  he  was  angry  with  the  man,  who  went  on:  "It's 
no  use  talking  about  that.  That's  over.  And  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  had  to  do  it.  She's  come  out  of 
it  all  right.  She's  not  harmed,  and  I  thank  God  for 
it!  If  there'd  been  a  child  living  .  ;.  .  well,  it  would 
ha'  been  different." 

Edwin  started.  This  man  didn't  know  he  was  a 
father — and  his  son  was  within  a  few  yards  of  him — 
might  come  running  in  at  any  moment!  (No!  Young 
George  would  not  come  in.  Nothing  but  positive  or- 
Iders  would  get  the  boy  out  of  the  engine-house  so  long 
as  the  engine-man  remained  there.)  Was  it  possible 
that  Hilda  had  concealed  the  existence  of  her  child, 
or  had  announced  the  child's  death?  If  so,  she  had 
never  done  a  wiser  thing,  and  such  sagacity  struck 
him  as  heroic.  But  if  Mrs.  Cannon  knew  as  to  the 
child,  then  it  was  Mrs.  Cannon  who,  with  equal  pru- 
dence and  for  a  different  end,  had  concealed  its  exist- 
ence from  George  Cannon  or  lied  to  him  as  to  its 
death.  Certainly  the  man  was  sincere.  As  he  said 
"Thank  God !"  his  full  voice  had  vibrated  like  the  voice 
of  an  ardent  religionist  at  a  prayer-meeting. 

George  Cannon  began  again : 

"All  I  mean  is  I'm  an  honest  man.     I've  been  damn- 


334  THESE  TWAIN 

ably  treated.  Not  that  I  want  to  go  into  that.  No  f 
I'm  a  fatalist.  That's  over.  That's  done  with.  I'm 
not  whining.  All  I'm  insisting  on  is  that  I'm  not  a 
thief,  and  I'm  not  a  forger,  and  I've  nothing  to  hide. 
Perhaps  I  brought  my  difficulties  about  that  bank-note 
business  on  myself.  But  when  you've  once  been  in 
prison,  you  don't  choose  your  friends — you  can't. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  ended  by  being  a  thief  or  a  for- 
ger, only  on  this  occasion  it  just  happens  that  I've 
had  a  good  six  years  for  being  innocent.  I  never  did 
anything  wrong,  or  even  silly,  except  let  myself  get  too 
fond  of  somebody.  That  might  happen  to  anyone. 
It  did  happen  to  me.  But  there's  nothing  else.  You 
understand?  I  never — " 

"Yes,  yes,  certainly!"  said  Edwin,  stopping  him  as 
he  was  about  to  repeat  all  the  argument  afresh.  It 
was  a  convincing  argument. 

"No  one's  got  the  right  to  look  down  on  me,  I 
mean,"  George  Cannon  insisted,  bringing  his  face  for- 
ward over  the  desk.  "On  the  contrary  this  country 
owes  me  an  apology.  However,  I  don't  want  to  go 
into  that.  That's  done  with.  Spilt  milk's  spilt.  I 
know  what  the  world  is." 

"I  agree.     I  agree!"  said  Edwin. 

He  did.  The  honesty  of  his  intelligence  admitted 
almost  too  eagerly  and  completely  the  force  of  the 
pleading. 

"Well,"  said  George  Cannon,  "to  cut  it  short,  I  want 
help.  And  I've  come  to  you  for  it." 

"Me !"  Edwin  feebly  exclaimed. 

"You,  Mr.  Clayhanger!  I've  come  straight  here 
from  London.  I  haven't  a  friend  in  the  whole  world, 
not  one.  It's  not  everybody  can  say  that.  There  was 
a  fellow  named  Dayson  at  Turnhill — used  to  work  for 
me — he'd  have  done  something  if  he  could.  But  he 


THE  GHOST  335 

was  too  big  a  fool  to  be  able  to ;  and  besides,  he's  gone, 
no  address.  I  wrote  to  him." 

"Oh,  that  chap!"  murmured  Edwin,  trying  to  find 
relief  in  even  a  momentary  turn  of  the  conversation. 
"I  know  who  you  mean.  Shorthand-writer.  He  died 
in  the  Isle  of  Man  on  his  holiday  two  years  ago.  It 
was  in  the  papers." 

"That's  his  address,  is  it?  Good  old  Dead  Letter 
Office!  Well,  he  is  crossed  off  the  list,  then;  no  mis- 
take!" Cannon  snarled  bitterly.  "I'm  aware  you're 
not  a  friend  of  mine.  I've  no  claim  on  you.  You 
don't  know  me;  but  you  know  about  me.  When  I 
saw  you  in  Dartmoor  I  guessed  who  you  were,  and 
I  said  to  myself  you  looked  the  sort  of  man  who  might 
help  another  man.  .  .  .  Why  did  you  come  into  the 
prison?  Why  did  you  bring  her  there?  You  must 
have  known  I  was  there."  He  spoke  with  a  sudden 
change  to  reproachfulness. 

"I  didn't  bring  her  there."  Edwin  blushed.  "It 

was However,  we  needn't  go  into  that,  if  you 

don't  mind." 

"Was  she  upset?" 

"Of  course." 

Cannon  sighed. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  Edwin  gloom- 
ily. In  secret  he  was  rather  pleased  that  George  Can- 
non should  have  deemed  him  of  the  sort  likely  to  help. 
Was  it  the  flattery  of  a  mendicant?  No,  he  did  not 
think  it  was.  He  believed  implicitly  everything  the 
man  was  saying. 

"Money!"  said  Cannon  sharply.  "Money!  You 
won't  feel  it,  but  it  will  save  me.  After  all,  Mr.  Clay- 
hanger,  there's  a  bond  between  us,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
There's  a  bond  between  us.  And  you've  had  all  the 
luck  of  it." 


336  THESE  TWAIN 

Again  Edwin  blushed. 

"But  surely  your  wife — "  he  stammered.  "Surely 
Mrs.  Cannon  isn't  without  funds.  Of  course  I  know 
she  was  temporarily  rather  short  a  while  back,  but 
surely — " 

"How  do  you  know  she  was  short?"  Cannon  grimly 
interrupted. 

"My  wife  sent  her  ten  pounds — I  fancy  it  was  ten 
pounds — towards  expenses,  you  know." 

Cannon  ejaculated,  half  to  himself,  savagely: 

"Never  told  me!" 

He  remained  silent. 

"But  I've  always  understood  she's  a  woman  of  prop- 
erty," Edwin  finished. 

Cannon  put  both  elbows  on  the  desk,  leaned  further 
forward,  and  opened  his  mouth  several  seconds  before 
speaking. 

"Mr.  Clayhanger,  I've  left  my  wife — as  you  call 
her.  If  I'd  stayed  with  her  I  should  have  killed  her. 
I've  run  off.  Yes,  I  know  all  she's  done  for  me.  I 
know  without  her  I  might  have  been  in  prison  to-day 
and  for  a  couple  o'  years  to  come.  But  I'd  sooner  be 
in  prison  or  in  hell  or  anywhere  you  like  than  with 
Mrs.  Cannon.  She's  an  old  woman.  She  always  was 
an  old  woman.  She  was  nearly  forty  when  she  hooked 
me,  and  I  was  twenty-two.  And  I'm  young  yet.  I'm 
not  middle-aged  yet.  She's  got  a  clear  conscience, 
Mrs.  Cannon  has.  She  always  does  her  duty.  She'd 
let  me  walk  over  her,  she'd  never  complain,  if  only  she 
could  keep  me.  She'd  just  play  and  smile.  Oh  yes, 
she'd  turn  the  other  cheek — and  keep  on  turning  it. 
But  she  isn't  going  to  have  me.  And  for  all  she's 
done  I'm  not  grateful.  Hag.  That's  what  she  is!" 
He  spoke  loudly,  excitedly,  under  considerable 
emotion. 


THE  GHOST  337 

"Hsh!"  Edwin,  alarmed,  endeavoured  gently  ta 
soothe  him. 

"All  right!  All  right!"  Cannon  proceeded  in  a 
lower  but  still  impassioned  voice.  "But  look  here! 
You're  a  man.  You  know  what's  what.  You'll  under- 
stand what  I  mean.  Believe  me  when  I  say  that  I 
wouldn't  live  with  that  woman  for  eternal  salvation. 
I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  do  it.  I've  taken  some  of  her 
money,  only  a  little,  and  run  off  .  .  ."  He  paused, 
and  went  on  with  conscious  persuasiveness  now:  "I've 
just  got  here.  I  had  to  ask  your  whereabouts.  I 
might  have  been  recognised  in  the  streets,  but  I  haven't 
been.  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here  at  this  time. 
I  might  have  had  to  sleep  in  the  town  to-night.  I 
wouldn't  have  come  to  your  private  house.  Now  I've 
seen  you  I  shall  get  along  to  Crewe  to-night.  I  shall 
be  safer  there.  And  it's  on  the  way  to  Liverpool  and 
America.  I  want  to  go  to  America.  With  a  bit  o' 
capital  I  shall  be  all  right  in  America.  It's  my  one 
chance;  but  it's  a  good  one.  But  I  must  have  some 
capital.  No  use  landing  in  New  York  with  empty 
pockets." 

Said  Edwin,  still  shying  at  the  main  issues : 

"I  was  under  the  impression  you  had  been  to  Amer- 
ica once." 

"Yes,  that's  why  I  know.  I  hadn't  any  money. 
And  what's  more,"  he  added  with  peculiar  emphasis, 
"I  was  brought  back." 

Edwin  thought: 

"I  shall  yield  to  this  man." 

At  that  instant  he  saw  the  shadow  of  Hilda's  head 
and  shoulders  on  the  glass  of  the  door. 

"Excuse  me  a  second,"  he  murmured,  bounded  with 
astonishing  velocity  out  of  the  room,  and  pulled  the 
door  to  after  him  with  a  bang. 


338  THESE  TWAIN 

m 

Hilda,  having  observed  the  strange,  excited  gesture, 
paused  a  moment,  in  an  equally  strange  tranquillity, 
before  speaking.  Edwin  fronted  her  at  the  very  door. 
Then  she  said,  clearly  and  deliberately,  through  her 
veil : 

"Auntie  Hamps  has  had  an  attack — heart.  The 
doctor  says  she  can't  possibly  live  through  the  night. 
It  was  at  Clara's." 

This  was  the  first  of  Mrs.  Hamps's  fatal  heart- 
attacks. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Edwin,  with  apparently  a  purely 
artistic  interest  in  the  affair.  "So  that's  it,  is  it? 
Then  she's  at  Clara's." 

"Yes." 

"What  doctor?" 

"I  forget  his  name.  Lives  in  Acre  Lane.  They 
sent  for  the  nearest.  She  can't  get  her  breath — has 
to  fight  for  it.  She  jumped  out  of  bed,  struggling 
to  breathe." 

"Have  you  seen  her?" 

"Yes.     They  made  me." 

"Albert  there?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'd  better  go  round.  You  go 
back.  I'U  follow  you." 

He  was  conscious  of  not  the  slightest  feeling  of 
sorrow  at  the  imminent  death  of  Auntie  Hamps.  Even 
the  image  of  the  old  lady  fighting  to  fetch  her 
breath  scarcely  moved  him,  though  the  deathbed  of 
his  father  had  been  harrowing  enough.  He  and 
Hilda  had  the  same  thought:  "At  last  something 
has  happened  to  Auntie  Hamps!"  And  it  gave 
zest. 


THE  GHOST  339 

"I  must  speak  to  you,"  said  Hilda,  low,  and  moved 
towards  the  inner  door. 

The  clerk  Simpson  was  behind  them  at  his  ink- 
stained  desk,  stamping  letters,  and  politely  pretending 
to  be  deaf. 

"No,"  Edwin  stopped  her.  "There's  someone  in 
there.  We  can't  talk  there." 

"A  customer?" 

"Yes  ...  I  say,  Simpson.  Have  you  done  those 
letters?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Simpson,  smiling.  He  had 
been  recommended  as  a  "very  superior"  youth,  and 
had  not  disappointed,  despite  a  constitutional  ner- 
vousness. 

"Take  them  to  the  pillar,  and  call  at  Mr.  Benbow's 
and  tell  them  that  I'll  be  round  in  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  I  don't  know  as  you  need  come  back. 
Hurry  up." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Edwin  and  Hilda  watched  Simpson  go. 

"Whatever's  the  matter?"  Hilda  demanded  in  a  low, 
harsh  voice,  as  soon  as  the  outer  door  had  clicked. 
It  was  as  if  something  sinister  in  her  had  been  sud- 
denly released. 

"Matter?     Nothing.     Why?" 

"You  look  so  queer." 

"Well — you  come  along  with  these  shocks."  He 
gave  a  short,  awkward  laugh.  He  felt  and  looked 
guilty,  and  he  knew  that  he  looked  guilty. 

"You  looked  queer  when  you  came  out." 

"You've  upset  yourself,  my  child,  that's  all."  He 
now  realised  the  high  degree  of  excitement  which  he 
himself,  without  previously  being  aware  of  it,  had 
reached. 

"Edwin,  who  is  it  in  there?" 


340  THESE  TWAIN 

"Don't  I  tell  you— it's  a  customer." 

He  could  see  her  nostrils  twitching  through  the 
veil. 

"It's  George  Cannon  in  there !"  she  exclaimed. 

He  laughed  again.  "What  makes  you  feel  that?" 
he  asked,  feeling  all  the  while  the  complete  absurdity 
of  such  fencing. 

"When  I  ran  out  I  noticed  somebody.  He  was  read- 
ing a  newspaper  and  I  couldn't  see  him.  But  he  just 
moved  it  a  bit,  and  I  seemed  to  catch  sight  of  the  top 
of  his  head.  And  when  I  got  into  the  street  I  said 
to  myself,  'It  looked  like  George  Cannon,'  and  then 
I  said,  'Of  course  it  couldn't  be.'  And  then  with  this 
business  about  Auntie  Hamps  the  idea  went  right  out 
of  my  head." 

"Well,  it  is,  if  you  want  to  know." 

Her  mysterious  body  and  face  seemed  to  radiate  a 
disastrous  emotion  that  filled  the  whole  office. 

"Did  you  know  he  was  coming?" 

"I  did  not.  Hadn't  the  least  notion !"  The  sensa- 
tion of  criminality  began  to  leave  Edwin.  As  Hilda 
seemed  to  move  and  waver,  he  added : 

"Now  you  aren't  going  to  see  him!" 

And  his  voice  menacingly  challenged  her,  and  defied 
her  to  stir  a  step.  The  most  important  thing  in  the 
world,  then,  was  that  Hilda  should  not  see  George 
Cannon.  He  would  stop  her  by  force.  He  would  let 
himself  get  angry  and  brutal.  He  would  show  her 
that  he  was  the  stronger.  He  had  quite  abandoned 
his  earlier  attitude  of  unsentimental  callousness  which 
argued  that  after  all  it  wouldn't  ultimately  matter 
whether  they  encountered  each  other  or  not.  Far 
from  that,  he  was,  so  it  appeared  to  him,  standing  be- 
tween them,  desperate  and  determined,  and  acting  in- 
stinctively and  conventionally.  Their  separate  pasts, 


THE  GHOST  341 

each  full  of  grief  and  tragedy,  converged  terribly  upon 
him  in  an  effort  to  meet  in  just  that  moment,  and  he 
was  ferociously  resisting. 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"He  wants  me  to  help  him  to  go  to  America." 

"Your9 

"He  says  he  hasn't  a  friend." 

"But  what  about  his  wife?" 

"That's  just  what  I  said.  .  .  .  He's  left  her.  Says 
he  can't  live  with  her." 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  the  tension  appre- 
ciably lessened. 

"Can't  live  with  her !  Well,  I'm  not  surprised.  But 
I  do  think  it's  strange,  him  coming  to  you." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Edwin  drily,  taking  the  upper  hand ; 
for  the  change  in  Hilda's  tone — her  almost  childlike 
satisfaction  in  the  news  that  Cannon  would  not  live  with 
his  wife — seemed  to  endow  him  with  superiority.  "But 
there's  a  lot  of  strange  things  in  this  world.  Now 
listen  here.  I'm  not  going  to  keep  him  waiting;  I 
can't." 

He  then  spoke  very  gravely,  authoritatively  and  omi- 
nously: "Find  George  and  take  him  home  at 
once." 

Hilda,  impressed,  gave  a  frown. 

"I  think  it's  very  wrong  that  you  should  be  asked 
to  help  him."  Her  voice'  shook  and  nearly  broke. 
"Shall  you  help  him,  Edwin?" 

"I  shall  get  him  out  of  this  town  at  once,  and  out 
of  the  country.  Do  as  I  say.  As  things  are  he 
doesn't  know  there  is  any  George,  and  it's  just  as  well 
he  shouldn't.  But  if  he  stays  anywhere  about,  he's 
bound  to  know." 

All  Hilda's  demeanour  admitted  that  George  Can- 
non had  never  been  allowed  to  know  that  he  had  a 


[THESE  TWAIN 

son;  and  the  simple  candour  of  the  admission  fright- 
ened Edwin  by  its  very  simplicity. 

"Now !    Off  you  go !    George  is  in  the  engine-house." 

Hilda  moved  reluctantly  towards  the  outer-door^ 
like  a  reproved  and  rebellious  schoolgirl.  Suddenly 
she  burst  into  tears,  sprang  at  Edwin,  and,  putting 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  kissed  him  through  the  veil. 

"Nobody  but  you  would  have  helped  him — in  your 
place !"  she  murmured  passionately,  half  admiring, 
half  protesting.  And  with  a  backward  look  as  she 
hurried  off,  her  face  stern  and  yet  soft  seemed  to 
appeal:  "Help  him." 

Edwin  was  at  once  deeply  happy  and  impregnated 
with  a  sense  of  the  frightful  sadness  that  lurks  in  the 
hollows  of  the  world.  He  stood  alone  with  the  flaring 
gas,  overcome. 


IV 

He  went  back  to  the  private  room,  self-conscious 
and  rather  tongue-tied,  with  a  clear  feeling  of  relief 
that  Hilda  was  disposed  of,  removed  from  the  equa- 
tion— and  not  unsuccessfully.  After  the  woman,  to 
deal  with  the  man,  in  the  plain  language  of  men,  seemed 
simple  and  easy.  He  was  astounded,  equally,  by  the 
grudging  tardiness  of  Mrs.  Cannon's  information  to 
Hilda  as  to  the  release,  and  by  the  baffling,  inflexible 
detraction  of  Hilda's  words :  "Well,  I'm  not  surprised." 
And  the  flitting  image  of  Auntie  Hamps  fighting  for 
life  still  left  him  untouched.  He  looked  at  George  Can- 
non, and  George  Cannon,  with  his  unreliable  eyes, 
looked  at  him.  He  almost  expected  Cannon  to  say: 
"Was  that  Hilda  you  were  talking  to  out  there?" 
But  Cannon  seemed  to  have  no  suspicion  that,  in  either 
the  inner  or  the  outer  room,  he  had  been  so  close  to 


THE  GHOST  343 

her.  No  doubt,  when  he  was  waiting  by  the  mantel- 
piece in  the  outer  room,  he  had  lifted  the  paper  as 
soon  as  he  heard  the  door  unlatched,  expressly  in  order 
to  screen  himself  from  observation.  Probably  he  had 
not  even  guessed  that  the  passer  was  a  woman.  Had 
Simpson  been  there,  the  polite  young  man  would 
doubtless  have  said:  "Good  night,  Mrs.  Clayhanger," 
but  Simpson  had  happened  not  to  be  there. 

"Are  you  going  to  help  me?"  asked  George  Cannon, 
after  a  moment,  and  his  heavy  voice  was  so  beseeching, 
so  humble,  so  surprisingly  sycophantic,  so  fearful,  that 
Edwin  could  scarcely  bear  to  hear  it.  He  hated  to 
hear  that  one  man  could  be  so  slavishly  dependent  on 
another.  Indeed,  he  much  preferred  Cannon's  defiant, 
half-bullying  tone. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "I  shall  do  what  I  can.  What  do 
you  want?" 

"A  hundred  pounds,"  said  George  Cannon,  and,  as 
he  named  the  sum,  his  glance  was  hard  and  steady. 

Edwin  was  startled.  But  immediately  he  began  to 
readjust  his  ideas,  persuading  himself  that  after  all 
the  man  could  not  prudently  have  asked  for  less. 

"I  can't  give  it  you  all  now." 

Cannon's  face  lighted  up  in  relief  and  joy.  His 
black  eyes  sparkled  feverishly  with  the  impatience  of 
an  almost  hopeless  desire  about  to  be  satisfied.  Al- 
though he  did  not  move,  his  self-control  had  for  the 
moment  gone  completely,  and  the  secrets  of  his  soul 
were  exposed. 

"Can  you  send  it  me — in  notes?  I  can  give  you  an 
address  in  Liverpool."  His  voice  could  hardly  utter 
the  words. 

"Wait  a  second,"  said  Edwin. 

He  went  to  the  safe  let  into  the  wall,  of  which  he 
was  still  so  naively  proud,  and  unlocked  it  with  the 


344  THESE  TWAIN 

owner's  gesture.  The  perfect  fitting  of  the  bright  key, 
the  ease  with  which  it  turned,  the  silent,  heavy  swing 
of  the  massive  door  on  its  hinges — these  things  gave 
him  physical  as  well  as  moral  pleasure.  He  savoured 
the  security  of  his  position  and  his  ability  to  rescue 
people  from  destruction.  From  the  cavern  of  the  safe 
he  took  out  a  bag  of  gold,  part  of  the  money  required 
for  wages  on  the  morrow, — he  would  have  to  send  to 
the  Bank  again  in  the  morning.  He  knew  that  the 
bag  contained  exactly  twenty  pounds  in  half-sover- 
eigns, but  he  shed  the  lovely  twinkling  coins  on  the 
desk  and  counted  them. 

"Here,"  he  said.  "Here's  twenty  pounds.  Take 
the  bag,  too — it'll  be  handier,"  and  he  put  the  money 
into  the  bag.  Then  a  foolish,  grand  idea  struck 
him.  "Write  down  the  address  on  this  envelope,  will 
you,  and  I'll  send  you  a  hundred  to-morrow.  You 
can  rely  on  it." 

"Eighty,  you  mean,"  muttered  George  Cannon. 

"No,"  said  Edwin,  with  affected  nonchalance,  blush- 
ing, "a  hundred.  The  twenty  will  get  you  over  and 
you'll  have  a  hundred  clear  when  you  arrive  on  the 
other  side." 

"Ye're  very  kind,"  said  Cannon  weakly.     "I—" 

"Here.  Here's  the  envelope.  Here's  a  bit  of  pen- 
cil." Edwin  stopped  him  hastily.  His  fear  of  being 
thanked  made  him  harsh. 

While  Cannon  was  nervously  writing  the  address, 
he  noticed  that  the  man's  clumsy  fingers  were  those  of 
a  day-labourer. 

"You'll  get  it  all  back.  You'll  see,"  said  Cannon,  as 
he  stood  up  to  leave,  holding  his  glossy  felt  hat  in  his 
left  hand. 

"Don't  worry  about  that.  I  don't  want  it.  You 
owe  me  nothing." 


THE  GHOST  345 

"You'll  have  every  penny  back,  and  before  long, 
too." 

Edwin  smiled,  deprecating  the  idea. 

"Well,  good  luck!"  he  said.  "You'll  get  to  Crewe 
all  right.  There's  a  train  at  Shawport  at  eight 
seven." 

They  shook  hands,  and  quitted  the  inner  office.  As 
he  traversed  the  outer  office  on  his  way  forth,  in  front 
of  Edwin,  Cannon  turned  his  head,  as  if  to  say  some- 
thing, but,  confused,  he  said  nothing  and  went  on,  and 
at  once  he  disappeared  into  the  darkness  outside.  And 
Edwin  was  left  with  a  memory  of  his  dubious  eyes,  hard 
rather  than  confident,  profoundly  relieved  rather  than 
profoundly  grateful. 

"By  Jove!"  Edwin  murmured  by  himself.  "Who'd 
have  thought  it?  ...  They  say  those  chaps  always 
turn  up  again  like  bad  pennies,  but  I  bet  he  won't." 
Simultaneously  he  reflected  upon  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Cannon,  deserted;  but  it  did  not  excite  his  pity.  He 
fastened  the  safe,  extinguished  the  lights,  shut  the 
office,  and  prepared  his  mind  for  the  visit  to  Auntie 
Hamps. 


Hilda  and  her  son  were  in  the  dining-room,  in  which 
the  table,  set  for  a  special  meal — half-tea,  half-supper 
— made  a  glittering  oblong  of  white.  On  the  table, 
among  blue-and-white  plates,  and  knives  and  forks,  lay 
some  of  George's  shabby  school-books.  In  most 
branches  of  knowledge  George  privately  knew  that  he 
could  instruct  his  parents — especially  his  mother. 
Nevertheless  that  beloved  outgrown  creature  was  still 
occasionally  useful  at  home-lessons,  as  for  instance  in 
"poetry."  George,  disdainful,  had  to  learn  some  verses 


THESE  TWAIN 

each  week,  and  now  his  mother  held  a  book  entitled 
"The  Poetry  Reciter,"  while  George  mumbled  with 
imperfect  verbal  accuracy  the  apparently  immortal 
lines: 

Abou  Ben  Adhem,  may  his  tribe  increase, 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 

His  mother,  however,  scarcely  regarded  the  book. 
She  knew  the  poem  by  heart,  and  had  indeed  recited 
it  to  George,  who,  though  he  was  much  impressed  by 
her  fire,  could  not  by  any  means  have  been  persuaded 
to  imitate  the  freedom  of  her  delivery.  His  elocution 
to-night  was  unusually  bad,  for  the  reason  that  he  had 
been  pleasurably  excited  by  the  immense  news  of 
Auntie  Hamps's  illness.  Not  that  he  had  any  grudge 
against  Auntie  Hamps!  His  pleasure  would  have 
been  as  keen  in  the  grave  illness  of  any  other  important 
family  connection,  save  his  mother  and  Edwin.  Such 
notable  events  gave  a  sensational  interest  to  domestic 
life  which  domestic  life  as  a  rule  lacked. 

Then,  through  the  half-open  door  of  the  dining- 
room  came  the  sound  of  Edwin's  latch-key  in  the 
front-door. 

"There's  uncle!"  exclaimed  George,  and  jumped  up. 

Hilda  stopped  him. 

"Put  your  books  together,"  said  she.  "You  know 
uncle  likes  to  go  up  to  the  bathroom  before  he  does 
anything!" 

It  was  a  fact  that  the  precisian  hated  even  to  be 
greeted,  on  his  return  home  in  the  evening,  until  he  came 
downstairs  from  the  bathroom. 

Hilda  herself  collected  the  books  and  put  them  on 
the  sideboard. 

"Shall  I  tell  Ada?"  George  suggested,  champing 
the  bit. 


THE  GHOST  347 

"No.     Ada  knows." 

With  deliberation  Hilda  tended  the  fire.  Her  mind 
-was  in  a  state  of  emotional  flux.  Memories  and  com- 
parisons mournfully  and  yet  agreeably  animated  it. 
She  thought  of  the  days  when  she  used  to  recite  amid 
enthusiasm  in  the  old  drawing-room  of  the  Orgreaves ; 
and  of  the  days  when  she  was  a  wanderer,  had  no 
home,  no  support,  little  security;  and  of  the  brief, 
uncertain  days  with  George  Cannon;  and  of  the  eter- 
nal days  when  her  only  assurance  was  the  assurance 
of  disaster.  She  glanced  at  George,  and  saw  in  him 
reminders  of  his  tragic  secret  father  now  hidden  away, 
forced  into  the  background,  like  something  obscene. 
Nearly  every  development  of  the  present  out  of  the 
past  seemed  to  her,  now,  to  be  tragic.  Johnnie  Or- 
greave  had  of  course  not  come  back  from  his  idyll  with 
the  ripping  Mrs.  Chris  Hamson;  their  seclusion  was 
not  positively  known;  but  the  whole  district  knew  that 
the  husband  had  begun  proceedings  and  that  the  Or- 
greave  business  was  being  damaged  by  the  incom- 
petence of  Jimmie  Orgreave,  whose  deplorable  wife  had 
a  few  days  earlier  been  seen  notoriously  drunk  in  the 
dress-circle  of  the  Hanbridge  Theatre  Royal.  Janet 
was  still  at  Tavy  Mansion  because  there  was  no  place 
for  her  in  the  Five  Towns.  Janet  had  written  to 
Hilda,  sadly,  and  the  letter  breathed  her  sense  of  her 
own  futility  and  superfluousness  in  the  social  scheme. 
In  one  curt  phrase,  that  very  afternoon,  the  taciturn 
Maggie,  who  very  seldom  complained,  had  disclosed 
something  of  what  it  was  to  live  day  and  night  with 
Auntie  Hamps.  Even  Clara,  the  self-sufficient,  pro- 
tected by  an  almost  impermeable  armour  of  conceit, 
showed  signs  of  the  anxiety  due  to  obscure  chronic 
disease  and  a  husband  who  financially  never  knew 
where  he  was.  Finally,  the  last  glories  of  Auntie 


348  (THESE  TWAIN 

Hamps  were  sinking  to  ashes.  Only  Hilda  herself  was, 
from  nearly  every  point  of  view,  in  a  satisfactory  and 
promising  situation.  She  possessed  love,  health, 
money,  stability.  When  danger  threatened,  a  quiet 
and  unfailingly  sagacious  husband  was  there  to  meet 
and  destroy  it.  Surely  nothing  whatever  worth  men- 
tioning,  save  the  fact  that  she  was  distantly  approach- 
ing forty,  troubled  the  existence  of  Hilda  now;  and 
her  age  certainly  did  not  trouble  her. 

Ada  entered  with  the  hot  dishes,  and  went  out. 

At  length  Hilda  heard  the  bathroom  door.  She  left 
the  dining-room,  shutting  the  door  on  George,  who 
could  take  a  hint  very  well — considering  his  years. 
Edwin,  brushed  and  spruce,  was  coming  downstairs, 
rubbing  his  clean  hands  with  physical  satisfaction. 
He  nodded  amiably,  but  without  smiling. 

"Has  he  gone?"  said  Hilda,  in  a  low  voice. 

Edwin  nodded.    He  was  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

She  did  not  offer  to  kiss  him,  having  a  no- 
tion that  he  would  prefer  not  to  be  kissed  just 
then. 

"How  much  did  you  give  him?"  She  knew  he  would 
not  care  for  the  question,  but  she  could  not  help  put- 
ting it. 

He  smiled,  and  touched  her  shoulder.  She  liked  him 
to  touch  her  shoulder. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  condescen- 
sion. "Don't  you  worry  about  that." 

She  did  not  press  the  point.  He  could  be  free 
enough  with  information — except  when  it  was  de- 
manded. Some  time  later  he  would  begin  of  his  own 
accord  to  talk. 

"How  was  Auntie  Hamps?" 

"Well,  if  anything,  she's  a  bit  easier.  I  don't  mind 
betting  she  gets  over  it." 


THE  GHOST  349 

They  went  into  the  dining-room  almost  side  by  side, 
and  she  enquired  again  about  his  headache. 

The  meal  was  tranquil.  After  a  few  moments  Ed- 
win opened  the  subject  of  Auntie  Hamps's  illness  with 
some  sardonic  remarks  upon  the  demeanour  of  Albert 
Benbow. 

"Is  Auntie  dying?"  asked  George  with  gusto. 

Edwin  replied: 

"What  are  those  schoolbooks  doing  there  on  the 
sideboard?  I  thought  it  was  clearly  understood  that 
you  were  to  do  your  lessons  in  your  mother's  bou- 
doir." 

He  spoke  without  annoyance,  but  coldly.  He  was 
aware  that  neither  Hilda  nor  her  son  could  compre- 
hend that  to  a  bookman  schoolbooks  were  not  books, 
but  merely  an  eyesore.  He  did  not  blame  them  for 
their  incapacity,  but  he  considered  that  an  arrange- 
ment was  an  arrangement. 

"Mother  put  them  there,"  said  the  base  George. 

"Well,  you  can  take  them  away,"  said  Edwin  firmly. 
"Run  along  now." 

George  rose  from  his  place  between  Hilda  and  Ed- 
win, and  from  his  luscious  plate,  and  removed  the 
books.  Hilda  watched  him  meekly  go.  His  father,  too, 
had  gone.  Edwin  was  in  the  right ;  his  position  could 
not  be  assailed.  He  had  not  been  unpleasant,  but  he 
had  spoken  as  one  sublimely  confident  that  his  order 
would  not  be  challenged.  Within  her  heart  Hilda  re- 
belled. If  Edwin  had  been  responsible  for  some  act 
contrary  to  one  of  her  decrees,  she  would  never  in  his 
presence  have  used  the  tone  that  he  used  to  enforce 
obedience.  She  would  have  laughed  or  she  would  have 
frowned,  but  she  would  never  have  been  the  polite  auto- 
crat. Nor  would  he  have  expected  her  to  play  the  role ; 
he  would  probably  have  resented  it. 


350  THESE  TWAIN 

Why?  Were  they  not  equals?  No,  they  were  not 
equals.  The  fundamental  unuttered  assumption  upon 
which  the  household  life  rested  was  that  they  were 
not  equals.  She  might  cross  him,  she  might  momen- 
tarily defy  him,  she  might  torture  him,  she  might  drive 
him  to  fury,  and  still  be  safe  from  any  effective  re- 
prisals, because  his  love  for  her  made  her  necessary  to 
his  being;  but  in  spite  of  all  that  his  will  remained  the 
seat  of  government,  and  she  and  George  were  only  the 
Opposition.  In  the  end,  she  had  to  incline.  She  was 
the  complement  of  his  existence,  but  he  was  not  the 
complement  of  hers.  She  was  just  a  parasite,  though 
an  essential  parasite.  Why?  .  .  .  The  reason,  she 
judged,  was  economic,  and  solely  economic.  She  re- 
belled. Was  she  riot  as  individual,  as  original,  as  he? 
Had  she  not  a  powerful  mind  of  her  own,  experience 
of  her  own,  ideals  of  her  own?  Was  she  not  of  a 
nature  profoundly  and  exceptionally  independent  ?  .  .  . 

Her  lot  was  unalterable.  She  had  of  course,  nofc 
the  slightest  desire  to  leave  him;  she  was  devoted  to 
him;  what  irked  her  was  that,  even  had  she  had  the 
desire,  she  could  not  have  fulfilled  it,  for  she  was  too 
old  now,  and  too  enamoured  of  comfort  and  security, 
to  risk  such  an  enterprise.  She  was  a  captive,  and 
she  recalled  with  a  gentle  pang,  less  than  regret,  the 
days  when  she  was  unhappy  and  free  as  a  man,  when 
she  could  say,  "I  will  go  to  London,"  "I  will  leave 
London,"  "I  am  deceived  and  ruined,  but  I  am  my 
own  mistress." 

These  thoughts  in  the  idyllic  tranquillity  of  the 
meal,  mingled,  below  her  smiling  preoccupations  of  an 
honoured  house-mistress,  with  the  thoughts  of  her  love 
for  her  husband  and  son  and  of  their  excellences,  of 
the  masculine  love  which  enveloped  and  shielded  her, 
of  her  security,  of  the  tragedy  of  the  bribed  and 


THE  GHOST  351 

dismissed  victim  and  villain,  George  Cannon,  of  the 
sorrows  of  some  of  her  friends,  and  of  the  dead.  In 
her  heart  was  the  unquiet  whispering:  "I  submit,  and 
yet  I  shall  never  submit." 


BOOK  in 

EQUILIBRIUM 


CHAPTER    XVII 

GEORGE'S  EYES 


HELDA  sat  alone  in  the  boudoir,  before  the  fire.  She 
had  just  come  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  she  was  wear- 
ing the  white  uniform  of  the  kitchen,  unsuited  for  a 
boudoir;  but  she  wore  it  with  piquancy.  The  Novem- 
ber afternoon  had,  passed  into  dusk,  and  through  the 
window,  over  the  roofs  of  Hulton  Street,  stars  could 
be  seen  in  a  darkening  clear  sky.  After  a  very  sharp 
fall  and  rise  of  the  barometer,  accounting  for  heavy 
rainstorms,  the  first  frosts  were  announced,  and  win- 
ter was  on  the  doorstep.  The  hardy  inhabitants  of 
the  Five  Towns,  Hilda  among  them,  were  bracing 
themselves  to  the  discipline  of  winter,  with  its  mud, 
increased  smuts,  sleet,  and  damp,  piercing  chills ;  and 
they  were  taking  pleasure  in  the  tonic  prospect  of 
discomfort.  The  visitation  had  threatened  ever  since 
September.  Now  it  had  positively  come.  Let  it  come ! 
Build  up  the  fire,  stamp  the  feet,  and  defy  it!  Hilda 
was  exhilarated,  having  been  reawakened  to  the  zest 
and  the  romance  of  life,  not  merely  by  the  onset  of 
winter,  but  by  dramatic  events  in  the  kitchen. 

A  little  over  three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  clos- 
ing of  the  episode  of  George  Cannon,  and  for  two  of 
those  years  Hilda  had  had  peace  in  the  kitchen.  She 
had  been  the  firm  mistress  who  knows  what  she  wants, 
and,  knowing  also  how  to  handle  the  peculiar  inmates 
of  the  kitchen,  gets  it;  she  had  been  the  mistress  who 
"won't  put  up  with"  all  sorts  of  things,  including 

355 


356  THESE  TWAIN 

middle-age  and  ugliness  in  servants,  and  whom  heaven 
has  spoilt  by  too  much  favour.  Then  the  cook,  with 
the  ingratitude  of  a  cherished  domestic,  had  fallen  in 
love  and  carried  her  passion  into  a  cottage  miles  away 
at  Longshaw.  And  from  that  moment  Hilda  had 
ceased  to  be  the  mistress  who  by  firmness  commands 
fate;  she  had  become  as  other  mistresses.  In  a  year 
she  had  had  five  cooks,  giving  varying  degrees  of  in- 
tense dissatisfaction.  She  had  even  dismissed  the  slim 
and  constant  Ada  once,  but,  yielding  to  an  outburst 
of  penitent  affection,  had  withdrawn  the  notice.  The 
last  cook,  far  removed  from  youthfulness  or  pretti- 
ness,  had  left  suddenly  that  day,  after  insolence,  after 
the  discovery  of  secret  beer  and  other  vileness  in  the 
attic-bedroom,  after  a  scene  in  which  Hilda  had  ab- 
solutely silenced  her,  reducing  ribaldry  to  sobs.  Cook 
and  trunk  expelled,  Hilda  had  gone  about  the  house 
like  a  fumigation,  and  into  the  kitchen  like  the  embodi- 
ment of  calm  and  gay  efficiency.  She  would  do  the 
cooking  herself.  She  would  show  the  kitchen  that  she 
was  dependent  upon  nobody.  She  had  quickened  the 
speed  of  Ada,  accused  her  "tartly,"  but  not  without 
dry  good-humour,  of  a  disloyal  secretiveness,  and 
counselled  her  to  mind  what  she  was  about  if  she 
wanted  to  get  on  in  the  world. 

Edwin  knew  nothing,  for  all  had  happened  since  his 
departure  to  the  works  after  midday  dinner.  He  would 
be  back  in  due  course,  and  George  would  be  back,  and 
Tertius  Ingpen  (long  ago  reconciled)  was  coming  for 
the  evening.  She  would  show  them  all  three  what  a 
meal  was,  and  incidentally  Ada  would  learn  what  a 
meal  was.  There  was  nothing  like  demonstrating  to 
servants  that  you  could  beat  them  easily  at  their  own, 
game. 

She  had  just  lived  through  her  thirty-ninth  birth- 


GEORGE'S  EYES  357 

day.  "Forty!"  she  had  murmured  to  herself  with  a 
shiver  of  apprehension,  meaning  that  the  next  would 
be  the  fortieth.  It  was  an  unpleasant  experience.  She 
had  told  Edwin  not  to  mention  her  birthday  abroad. 
Clumsy  George  had  enquired:  "Mother,  how  old  are 
you?"  To  which  she  had  replied,  "Lay-ours  for  med- 
dlers !"  a  familiar  phrase  whose  origin  none  of  them 
understood,  but  George  knew  that  it  signified,  "Mind 
your  own  business."  No!  She  had  not  been  happy 
on  that  birthday.  She  had  gazed  into  the  glass  and 
decided  that  she  looked  old,  that  she  did  not  look  old, 
that  she  looked  old,  endlessly  alternating.  She  was 
not  stout,  but  her  body  was  solid,  too  solid;  it  had 
no  litheness,  none  whatever;  it  was  absolutely  set;  the 
cleft  under  the  chin  was  quite  undeniable,  and  the  olive 
complexion  subtly  ravaged.  Still,  not  a  hair  of  her 
dark  head  had  changed  colour.  It  was  perhaps  her 
soul  that  was  greying.  Her  married  life  was  fairly 
calm.  It  had  grown  monotonous  in  ease  and  tran- 
quillity. The  sharp,  respectful  admiration  for  her  hus- 
band roused  in  her  by  his  handling  of  the  Cannon  epi- 
sode, had  gradually  been  dulled.  She  had  nothing 
against  him.  Yet  she  had  everything  against  him,  be- 
cause apart  from  his  grave  abiding  love  for  her  he 
possessed  an  object  and  interest  in  life,  and  because 
she  was  a  mere  complement  and  he  was  not.  She  had 
asked  herself  the  most  dreadful  of  questions:  "Why 
have  I  lived?  Why  do  I  go  on  living?"  and  had  an- 
swered: "Because  of  them"  meaning  Edwin  and  her 
son.  But  it  was  not  enough  for  her,  who  had  once 
been  violently  enterprising,  pugnacious,  endangered, 
and  independent.  For  after  she  had  watched  over 
them  she  had  energy  to  spare,  and  such  energy  was 
not  being  employed  and  could  not  be  employed.  Read- 
ing— a  diversion!  Fancy  work — a  detestable  device 


358  THESE  TWAIN 

for  killing  time  and  energy!  Social  duties — ditto! 
Charity — hateful !  She  had  slowly  descended  into  mar- 
riage as  into  a  lotus  valley.  And  more  than  half  her 
life  was  gone.  She  could  never  detect  that  any  other 
married  woman  in  the  town  felt  as  she  felt.  She  could 
never  explain  herself  to  Edwin,  and  indeed  had  not 
tried  to  explain  herself. 

Now  the  affair  of  the  alcoholic  cook,  aided  by  win- 
ter's first  fillip,  stimulated  and  brightened  her.  And 
while  thinking  with  a  glance  at  the  clock  of  the  pre- 
cise moment  when  she  must  return  to  the  kitchen  and 
put  a  dish  down  to  the  fire,  she  also  thought,  rather 
hopefully  and  then  quite  hopefully,  about  the  future  of 
her  marriage.^  Her  brain  seemed  to  straighten  and 
correct  itself,  like  the  brain  of  one  who,  waking  up  in 
the  morning,  slowly  perceives  that  the  middle-of-the- 
night  apprehensiveness  about  eventualities  was  all 
awry  in  its  pessimism.  She  saw  that  everything  could 
and  must  be  improved,  that  the  new  life  must  begin. 
Edwin  needed  to  be  inspired;  she  must  inspire  him. 
He  slouched  more  and  more  in  his  walk;  he  was  more 
and  more  absorbed  in  his  business,  quieter  in  the  even- 
ings, more  impatient  in  the  mornings.  Moreover,  the 
household  machine  had  been  getting  slack.  A  general 
tonic  was  required;  she  would  administer  it — and  to 
herself  also.  They  should  all  feel  the  invigorating 
ozone  that  very  night.  She  would  organise  social  dis- 
tractions ;  on  behalf  of  the  home  she  would  reclaim  from 
the  works  those  odd  hours  and  half-hours  of  Edwin's 
which  it  had  imperceptibly  filched.  She  would  have 
some  new  clothes,  and  she  would  send  Edwin  to  the 
tailor's.  She  would  make  him  buy  a  dog-cart  and  a 
horse.  Oh!  She  could  do  it.  She  had  the  mastery  of 
him  in  many  things  when  she  chose  to  be  aroused.  In 
a  word,  she  would  "branch  out." 


GEORGE'S  EYES  359 

She  was  not  sure  that  she  would  not  prosecute  a  cam- 
paign for  putting  Edwin  on  the  Town  Council,  where  he 
certainly  ought  to  be.  It  was  his  duty  to  take  a  share  in 
public  matters,  and  ultimately  to  dominate  the  town. 
Suggestions  had  already  been  made  by  wirepullers,  and 
unreflectively  repulsed  by  the  too  casual  Edwin.  She 
saw  him  mayor,  and  herself  mayoress.  Once,  the  pros- 
pect of  any  such  formal  honour,  with  all  that  it  entailed 
of  ceremoniousness  and  insincere  civilities,  would  have 
annoyed  if  not  frightened  her.  But  now  she  thought, 
proudly  and  timidly  and  desirously,  that  she  would 
make  as  good  a  mayoress  as  most  mayoresses,  and  that 
she  could  set  one  or  two  of  them  an  example  in  tact 
and  dignity.  Why  not?  Of  late  neither  mayors  nor 
mayoresses  in  the  Five  Towns  had  been  what  they  used 
to  be.  The  grand  tradition  was  apparently  in  abey- 
ance, the  people  who  ought  to  carry  it  on  seeming 
somehow  to  despise  it.  She  could  remember  mayors, 
especially  Chief  Bailiffs  at  Turnhill,  who  imposed  them- 
selves upon  the  imagination  of  the  town.  But  nowa- 
days the  name  of  a  mayor  was  never  a  household  word. 
She  had  even  heard  Ingpen  ask  Edwin:  "See,  who  is 
the  new  mayor?"  and  Edwin  start  his  halting  answer: 
"Let  me  see—" 

And  she  had  still  another  and  perhaps  greater 
ambition — to  possess  a  country  house.  In  her 
fancy  her  country  house  was  very  like  Alicia  Hes- 
keth's  house,  Tavy  Mansion,  which  she  had  never 
ceased  to  envy.  She  felt  that  in  a  new  home,  spacious, 
with  space  around  it,  she  could  really  commence  the 
new  life.  She  saw  the  place  perfectly  appointed  and 
functioning  perfectly — no  bother  about  smuts  on 
white  curtains;  no  half-trained  servants;  none  of  the 
base,  confined,  promiscuity  of  filthy  Trafalgar  Road; 
and  the  Benbows  and  Auntie  Hamps  at  least  eight  or 


860  THESE  TWAIN 

ten  miles  off!  She  saw  herself  driving  Edwin  to  the 
station  in  the  morning,  or  perhaps  right  into  Bursley 
if  she  wanted  to  shop.  .  .  .  No,  she  would  of  course 
shop  at  Oldcastle.  .  .  .  She  would  leave  old  Darius 
Clayhanger's  miracle-house  without  one  regret.  And  in 
the  new  life  she  would  be  always  active,  busy,  dignified, 
elegant,  influential,  and  kind.  And  to  Edwin  she  would 
be  absolutely  indispensable. 

In  these  imaginings  their  solid  but  tarnished  love 
glittered  and  gleamed  again.  She  saw  naught  but 
the  charming  side  of  Edwin  and  the  romantic  side  of 
their  union.  She  was  persuaded  that  there  really  was 
nobody  like  Edwin,  and  that  no  marriage  had  ever  had 
quite  the  mysterious,  secretly  exciting  quality  of  hers. 
She  yearned  for  him  to  come  home  at  once,  to  appear 
magically  in  the  dusk  of  the  doorway.  The  mood  was 
marvellous. 


The  door  opened. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you,  m'm?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Ada,  somewhat  perturbed.  She 
advanced  a  little  and  stood  darkly  in  front  of  the 
open  doorway. 

"What  is  it,  Ada?"  Hilda  asked  curtly,  without 
turning  to  look  at  her. 

"It's — "  Ada  began  and  stopped. 

Hilda  glanced  round  quickly,  recognising  now  in  the 
voice  a  peculiar  note  with  which  experience  had  famil- 
iarised her.  It  was  a  note  between  pertness  and  the 
beginning  of  a  sob,  and  it  always  indicated  that  Ada 
was  feeling  more  acutely  than  usual- the  vast  injustice 
of  the  worldly  scheme.  It  might  develop  into  tears; 
on  the  other  hand  it  might  develop  into  mere  insolence. 
Hilda  discerned  that  Ada  was  wearing  neither  cap  nor 


GEORGE'S  EYES  361 

apron.  She  thought:  "If  this  stupid  girl  wants 
trouble,  she  has  come  to  me  at  exactly  and  precisely 
the  right  moment  to  get  it.  I'm  not  in  the  humour, 
after  all  I've  gone  through  to-day,  to  stand  any  non- 
sense either  from  her  or  from  anybody  else." 

"What  is  it,  Ada?"  she  repeated,  with  restraint,  and 
yet  warningly.  "And  where' s  your  apron  and  your 
cap?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  m'm." 

"Well,  go  and  put  them  on,  and  then  come  and  say 
what  you  have  to  say,"  said  Hilda,  thinking:  "I  don't 
give  any  importance  to  her  cap  and  apron,  but  she 
does." 

"I  was  thinking  I'd  better  give  ye  notice,  m'm,"  said 
Ada,  and  she  said  it  pertly,  ignoring  the  command. 

The  two  women  were  alone  together  in  the  house. 
Each  felt  it;  each  felt  the  large  dark  emptiness  of  the 
house  behind  them,  and  the  solid  front  and  back  doors 
cutting  them  off  from  succour;  each  had  to  depend 
entirely  upon  herself. 

Hilda   asked  quietly : 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

She  knew  that  Ada's  grievance  would  prove  to  be 
silly.  The  girl  had  practically  no  commonsense.  Not 
one  servant  girl  in  a  hundred  had  any  appreciable  com- 
monsense. And  when  girls  happened  to  be  "upset" — 
as  they  were  all  liable  to  be,  and  as  Ada  by  the  vio- 
lent departure  of  the  cook  no  doubt  was — even  such 
minute  traces  of  gumption  as  they  possessed  were 
apt  to  disappear. 

"There's  no  pleasing  you,  m'm!"  said  Ada.  "The 
way  you  talked  to  me  in  the  kitchen,  saying  I  was 
always  a-hiding  things  from  ye.  I've  felt  it  very 
much!" 

She  threw  her  head  back,  and  the  gesture  signified: 


362  THESE  TWAIN 

"I'm  younger  than  you,  and  young  men  are  always 
running  after  me.  And  I  can  get  a  new  situation  any 
time.  And  I've  not  gone  back  into  my  kitchen  to 
put  my  cap  and  apron  on." 

"Ada,"  said  Hilda.  "Shall  I  tell  you  what's  wrong 
with  you?  You're  a  little  fool.  You  know  you're 
talking  rightdown  nonsense.  You  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do.  And  you  know  you'll  never  get  a  better  place 
than  you  have  here.  But  you've  taken  an  idea  into 
your  head — and  there  you  are!  Now  do  be  sensible. 
You  say  you  think  you'd  better  give  notice.  Think 
it  over  before  you  do  anything  ridiculous.  Sleep  on 
it.  We'll  see  how  you  feel  in  the  morning." 

"I  think  I'd  better  give  notice,  m'm,  especially  seeing 
I'm  a  fool,  and  silly,"  Ada  persisted. 

Hilda  sighed.     Her  voice  hardened  slightly: 

"So  you'd  leave  me  without  a  maid  just  at  Christ- 
mas !  And  that's  all  the  thanks  I  get  for  all  I've  done 
for  you." 

"Well,  m'm.  We've  had  such  a  queer  lot  of  girls  here 
lately,  haven't  we?"  The  pertness  was  intensified.  "I 
don't  hardly  care  to  stay.  I  feel  we  sh'd  both  be 
better  for  a  change  like." 

It  was  perhaps  Ada's  subtly  insolent  use  of  the  word 
"we"  and  "both"  that  definitely  brought  about  a  new 
phase  of  the  interview.  Hilda  suddenly  lost  all  desire 
for  an  amicable  examination  of  the  crisis. 

"Very  well,  Ada,"  she  said,  shortly.  "But  remem- 
ber I  shan't  take  you  back  again,  whatever  happens." 

Ada  moved  away,  and  then  returned. 

"Could  I  leave  at  once,  m'm,  same  as  cook?" 

Hilda  was  astonished  and  outraged,  despite  all  her 
experience  and  its  resulting  secret  sardonic  cynicism  in 
regard  to  servants.  The  girl  was  ready  to  walk  out  in- 
stantly. 


GEORGE'S  EYES  363 

"And  may  I  enquire  where  you'd  go  to?"  asked 
Hilda  with  a  sneer.  "At  this  time  of  night  you  couldn't 
possibly  get  home  to  your  parents." 

"Oh!"  answered  Ada  brightly.  "I  could  go  to  me 
cousin's  up  at  Toft  End.  And  her  could  send  down 
a  lad  with  a  barrow  for  me  box." 

The  plot,  then,  had  been  thought  out.  "Her 
cousin's !"  thought  Hilda,  and  seemed  to  be  putting 
her  finger  on  the  cause  of  Ada's  disloyalty.  "Her 
cousin's!"  It  was  a  light  in  a  dark  mystery.  "Her 
cousin's !" 

"I  suppose  you  know  you're  forfeiting  the  wages 
due  to  you  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"I  shall  ask  me  cousin  about  that,  m'm,"  said  Ada,  as 
it  were  menacingly. 

"I  should !"  Hilda  sarcastically  agreed.  "I  certainly 
should."  And  she  thought  with  bitter  resignation: 
"She'll  have  to  leave  anyhow  after  this.  She  may  as 
well  leave  on  the  spot." 

"There's  those  as'll  see  as  I  have  me  rights,"  said 
Ada  pugnaciously,  with  another  toss  of  the  head. 

Hilda  had  a  mind  to  retort  in  anger;  but  she  con- 
trolled herself.  Already  that  afternoon  she  had  im- 
perilled her  dignity  in  the  altercation  with  the  cook. 
The  cook,  however,  had  not  Ada's  ready  tongue,  and, 
while  the  mistress  had  come  off  best  against  the  cook, 
she  might  through  impulsiveness  find  herself  worsted 
by  Ada's  more  youthful  impudence,  were  it  once  un- 
loosed. 

"That  will  do,  then,  Ada,"  she  said.  "You  can 
go  and  pack  your  box  first  thing." 

In  less  than  three  quarters  of  an  hour  Ada  was 
gone,  and  her  corded  trunk  lay  just  within  the  scul- 
lery door,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  cousin's  barrow. 
She  had  bumped  it  down  the  stairs  herself. 


364  THESE  TWAIN 

All  solitary  in  the  house,  which  had  somehow  been 
transformed  into  a  strange  and  unusual  house,  Hilda 
wept.  She  had  only  parted  with  an  unfaithful  and 
ungrateful  servant,  but  she  wept.  She  dashed  into  the 
kitchen  and  began  to  do  Ada's  work,  still  weeping,  and 
she  was  savage  against  her  own  tears ;  yet  they  con- 
tinued softly  to  fall,  misting  her  vision  of  fire  and 
utensils  and  earthenware  vessels.  Ada  had  left  every- 
thing in  a  moment;  she  had  left  the  kettle  on  the  fire, 
and  the  grease  in  the  square  tin  in  which  the  dinner- 
joint  had  been  cooked,  and  the  ashes  in  the  fender, 
and  tea-leaves  in  the  kitchen  teapot  and  a  cup  and 
saucer  unwashed.  She  had  cared  naught  for  the  in- 
convenience she  was  causing;  had  shewn  not  the 
slightest  consideration ;  had  walked  off  without  a  pang, 
smilingly  hoity-toity.  And  all  servants  were  like  that. 
Such  conduct  might  be  due  as  much  to  want  of  imagi- 
nation, to  a  simple  inability  to  picture  to  themselves 
the  consequences  of  certain  acts,  as  to  stark  ingrati- 
tude ;  but  the  consequences  remained  the  same ;  and 
Hilda  held  fiercely  to  the  theory  of  stark  ingratitude. 

She  had  made  Ada ;  she  had  created  her.  When 
Hilda  engaged  her,  Ada  was  little  more  than  an  "oat- 
cake girl," — that  is  to  say,  one  of  those  girls  who  earn 
a  few  pence  by  delivering  oat-cakes  fresh  from  the  stove 
at  a  halfpenny  each  before  breakfast  at  the  houses 
of  gormandising  superior  artisans  and  the  middle- 
classes.  True,  she  had  been  in  one  situation  prior 
to  Hilda's,  but  it  was  a  situation  where  she  learnt 
nothing  and  could  have  learnt  nothing.  Nevertheless, 
she  was  very  quick  to  learn,  and  in  a  month  Hilda 
had  done  wonders  with  her.  She  had  taught  her  not 
only  her  duties,  but  how  to  respect  herself,  to  make 
the  best  of  herself,  and  favourably  to  impress  others. 
She  had  enormously  increased  Ada's  value  in  the  uni- 


GEORGE'S  EYES  365 

verse.  And  she  had  taught  her  some  worldly  wisdom, 
and  permitted  and  even  encouraged  certain  coquetries, 
and  in  the  bed-room  during  dressings  and  undressings 
had  occasionally  treated  her  as  a  soubrette  if  not  as  a 
confidante ;  had  listened  to  her  at  length,  and  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  ask  her  views  on  this  matter  or  that — the 
supreme  honour  for  a  menial.  Also  she  had  very  con- 
scientiously nursed  her  in  sickness.  She  had  really 
liked  Ada,  and  had  developed  a  sentimental  weakness 
for  her.  She  had  taken  pleasure  in  her  prettiness,  in 
her  natural  grace,  and  in  her  crude  youth.  She  en- 
joyed seeing  Ada  arrange  a  bedroom,  or  answer  the 
door,  or  serve  a  meal.  And  Ada's  stupidity — that 
half-cunning  stupidity  of  her  class,  which  immovably 
underlay  her  superficial  aptitudes — had  not(  sufficed 
to  spoil  her  affection  for  the  girl.  She  had  been  in- 
dulgent to  Ada's  stupidity;  she  had  occasionally  in 
some  soft  moods  hoped  that  it  was  curable.  And  she 
had  argued  in  moments  of  discouragement  that  at  any 
rate  stupidity  could  be  faithful.  In  her  heart  she  had 
counted  Ada  as  a  friend,  as  a  true  standby  in  the 
more  or  less  tragic  emergencies  of  the  household.  And 
now  Ada  had  deserted  her.  Stupidity  had  proved  to 
be  neither  faithful  nor  grateful.  Why  had  Ada  been 
so  silly  and  so  base?  Impossible  to  say!  A  nothing! 
A  whim!  Nerves!  Fatuity!  The  whole  affair  was 
horribly  absurd.  These  creatures  were  incalculable. 
Of  course  Hilda  would  have  been  wiser  not  to  upbraid 
her  so  soon  after  the  scene  with  the  cook,  and  to  have 
spoken  more  smoothly  to  the  chit  in  the  boudoir.  Hilda 
admitted  that.  But  what  then?  Was  that  an  excuse 
for  the  chit's  turpitude?  There  must  be  a  limit  to 
the  mistress's  humouring.  And  probably  after  all  the 
chit  had  meant  to  go.  ...  If  she  had  not  meant 
to  go  she  would  not  have  entered  the  boudoir  apron- 


THESE  TWAIN 

less  and  capless.  Some  rankling  word,  some  ridicu- 
lous sympathy  with  the  cook,  some  wild  dream  of  a 
Christmas  holiday — who  could  tell  what  might  have  in- 
fluenced her?  Hilda  gave  it  up — and  returned  to  it 
a  thousand  times.  One  truth  emerged — and  it  was  the 
great  truth  of  housemistresses — namely,  that  it  never, 
never,  never  pays  to  be  too  kind  to  servants.  "Ser- 
vants do  not  understand  kindness."  You  think  they 
do;  they  themselves  think  they  do;  but  they  don't, — 
they  don't  and  they  don't.  Hilda  went  back  into  the 
immensity  of  her  desolating  experience  as  an  employer 
of  female  domestic  servants  of  all  kinds,  but  chiefly 
bad — for  the  landlady  of  a  small  boarding  house  must 
take  what  servants  she  can  get — and  she  raged  at 
the  persistence  of  the  proof  that  kindness  never  paid. 
What  did  pay  was  severity  and  inhuman  strictness, 
and  the  maintenance  of  an  impassable  gulf  between 
employer  and  employed.  Not  again  would  she  make 
the  mistake  which  she  had  made  a  hundred  times.  She 
hardened  herself  to  the  consistency  of  a  slave-driver. 
And  all  the  time  it  was  the  woman  in  her,  not  the  mis- 
tress, that  the  hasty  thoughtless  Ada  had  wounded. 
To  the  woman  the  kitchen  was  not  the  same  place 
without  Ada — Ada  on  whom  she  had  utterly  relied  in 
the  dilemma  caused  by  the  departure  of  the  cook.  As 
with  angrily  wet  eyes  she  went  about  her  new  work  in 
the  kitchen,  she  could  almost  see  the  graceful  ghost 
of  Ada  tripping  to  and  fro  therein. 

And  all  that  the  world,  and  the  husband,  would 
know  or  understand  was  that  a  cook  had  been  turned 
out  for  drunkenness,  and  that  a  quite  sober  parlour- 
maid had  most  preposterously  walked  after  her.  Hilda 
was  aware  that  in  Edwin  she  had  a  severe,  though  a 
taciturn,  critic  of  her  activities  as  employer  of  ser- 
vants. She  had  no  hope  whatever  of  his  sympathy, 


GEORGE'S  EYES  367 

and  so  she  closed  all  her  gates  against  him.  She 
waited  for  him  as  for  an  adversary,  and  all  the  lustre 
faded  from  her  conception  of  their  love. 


in 

When  Edwin  approached  his  home  that  frosty  even- 
ing, he  was  disturbed  to  perceive  that  there  was  no 
light  from  the  hall-gas  shining  through  the  panes  of 
the  front-door,  though  some  light  showed  at  the  din- 
ing-room window,  the  blinds  of  which  had  not  been 
drawn.  "What  next?"  he  thought  crossly.  He  was 
tired,  and  the  keenness  of  the  weather,  instead  of  brac- 
ing him,  merely  made  him  petulant.  He  was  astonished 
that  several  women  in  a  house  could  all  forget  such 
an  important  act  as  the  lighting  of  the  hall-gas  at 
nightfall.  Never  before  had  the  hall-gas  been  forgot- 
ten, and  the  negligence  appeared  to  Edwin  as  abso- 
lutely monstrous.  The  effect  of  it  on  the  street,  the 
effect  on  a  possible  caller,  was  bad  enough  (Edwin, 
while  pretending  to  scorn  social  opinion,  was  really 
very  deferential  towards  it),  but  what  was  worse  was 
the  revelation  of  the  feminine  mentality. 

In  opening  the  door  with  his  latchkey  he  was  pur- 
posely noisy,  partly  in  order  to  give  expression  to  his 
justified  annoyance,  and  partly  to  warn  all  peccant 
women  that  the  male  had  arrived,  threatening. 

As  his  feet  fumbled  into  the  interior  gloom  and  he 
banged  the  door,  he  quite  expected  a  rush  of  at  least 
one  apologetic  woman  with  a  box  of  matches.  But 
nobody  came.  Nevertheless  he  could  hear  sharp  move- 
ments through  the  half-open  door  of  the  kitchen.  As- 
suredly women  had  the  irresponsibility  of  infants.  He 
glanced  for  an  instant  into  the  dining-room ;  the  white 
cloth  was  laid,  biit  the  table  was  actually  not  set. 


368  THESE  TWAIN 

With  unusual  righteous  care  he  wiped  the  half-con- 
gealed mud  off  his  boots  on  the  mat ;  then  removed  his 
hat  and  his  overcoat,  took  a  large  new  piece  of  in- 
diarubber  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  on  the  hall-table, 
felt  the  radiator  (which  despite  all  his  injunctions 
and  recommendations  was  almost  cold)  ;  and  lastly  he 
lighted  the  gas  himself.  This  final  act  was  contrary 
to  his  own  rule,  for  he  had  often  told  Hilda  that  half 
her  trouble  with  servants  arose  through  her  impa- 
tiently doing  herself  things  which  they  had  omitted,  in- 
stead of  ringing  the  bell  and  seeing  the  things  done. 
But  he  was  not  infrequently  inconsistent,  both  in  deed 
and  in  thought.  For  another  example,  he  would  say 
superiorly  that  a  woman  could  never  manage  women, 
ignoring  that  he  the  all-wise  had  never  been  able  to 
manage  Hilda. 

He  turned  to  go  upstairs.  At  the  same  moment 
somebody  emerged  obscurely  from  the  kitchen.  It  was 
Hilda,  in  a  white  apron. 

"Oh!  I'm  glad  you've  lighted  it,"  said  she  curtly, 
without  the  least  symptom  of  apology,  but  rather  af- 
frontingly. 

He  continued  his  way. 

"Have  you  seen  anything  of  George?"  she  asked, 
and  her  tone  stopped  him. 

Yet  she  well  knew  that  he  hated  to  be  stopped  of 
an  evening  on  his  way  to  the  bathroom.  It  could 
not  be  sufficiently  emphasized  that  to  accost  him 
before  he  had  descended  from  the  bathroom  was  to 
transgress  one  of  the  most  solemn  rules  of  his  daily 
life. 

"Of  course  I  haven't  seen  George,"  he  answered. 
"How  should  I  have  seen  George  ?" 

"Because  he's  not  back  from  school  yet,  and  I  can't 
help  wondering — > — " 


GEORGE'S  EYES  369 

She  was  worrying  about  George  as  usual. 

He  grunted  and  passed  on. 

"There's  no  light  on  the  landing,  either,"  he  said, 
over  the  banisters.  "I  wish  you'd  see  to  those  ser- 
vants of  yours." 

"As  it  happens  there  aren't  any  servants." 

Her  tone,  getting  more  peculiar  with  each  phrase, 
stopped  him  again. 

"Aren't  any  servants?     What  d'you  mean?" 

"Well,  I  found  the  attic  full  of  beer  bottles,  so  I 
sent  her  off  on  the  spot." 

"Sent  who  off?" 

"Eliza." 

"And  where's  Ada?" 

"She's  gone  too,"  said  Hilda  defiantly,  and  as 
though  rebutting  an  accusation  before  it  could  be 
made. 

"Why?" 

"She  seemed  to  want  to.  And  she  was  very  imper- 
tinent over  it." 

He  snorted  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Well,  it's  your  affair,"  he  muttered,  too  scornful 
to  ask  details. 

"It  is,"  said  she,  significantly  laconic. 

In  the  bathroom,  vexed  and  gloomy  as  he  brushed 
his  nails  and  splashed  in  the  wash  basin,  he  mused 
savagely  over  the  servant  problem.  The  servant  prob- 
lem had  been  growing  acute.  He  had  predicted  several 
times  that  a  crisis  would  arrive;  a  crisis  had  arrived; 
he  was  always  right;  his  rightness  was  positively  un- 
canny. He  had  liked  Ada;  he  had  not  disliked  the 
cook.  He  knew  that  Hilda  was  to  blame.  How  should 
she  not  be  to  blame, — losing  her  entire  staff  in  one 
afternoon?  It  was  not  merely  that  she  lacked  the 
gift  of  authoritative  control, — it  was  also  that  she  had 


370  THESE  TWAIN 

no  feeling  for  democratic  justice  as  between  one  hu- 
man being  and  another.  And  yet  among  his  earliest 
recollections  of  her  was  her  passionate  sympathy  with 
men  on  strike  as  against  their  employers.  Totally 
misleading  manifestations !  For  her  a  servant  was 
nothing  but  a  "servant."  She  was  convinced  that  all 
her  servants  were  pampered  and  spoilt;  and  as  for 
Edwin's  treatment  of  his  workpeople  she  considered 
it  to  be  ridiculously,  criminally  soft.  If  she  had  im- 
plied once  she  had  implied  a  hundred  times  that  the 
whole  lot  of  them  laughed  at  him  behind  his  back  for 
a  sentimental  simpleton.  Occasionally  Edwin  was 
quite  outraged  by  her  callousness.  The  topic  of  the 
eight-hours  day,  of  the  ten-hours  day,  and  even  of 
the  twelve-hours  day  (the  last  for  tramwaymen)  had 
been  lately  exciting  the  district.  And  Edwin  was  dis- 
tressed that  in  his  own  house  a  sixteen-hour  day  for 
labour  was  in  vogue  and  that  the  employer  perceived 
no  shame  in  it.  He  did  not  clearly  see  how  the  shame 
was  to  be  abolished,  but  he  thought  that  it  ought  to 
be  admitted.  It  was  not  admitted.  From  six  in  the 
morning  until  ten  at  night  these  mysterious  light- 
headed young  women  were  the  slaves  of  a  bell.  They 
had  no  surcease  except  one  long  weekday  evening  each 
week  and  a  short  Sunday  evening  each  fortnight.  At 
one  period  Hilda  had  had  a  fad  for  getting  them  out 
of  bed  at  half-past  five,  to  cure  them  of  laziness.  He 
remembered  one  cook  whose  family  lived  at  the  village 
of  Brindley  Edge,  five  miles  off.  This  cook  on  her 
weekday  evening  would  walk  to  Brindley  Edge,  spend 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  in  her  home,  and  walk  back 
to  Bursley,  reaching  Trafalgar  Road  just  in  time  to 
get  to  bed.  Hilda  saw  nothing  very  odd  in  that.  She 
said  the  girl  could  always  please  herself  about  going 
to  Brindley  Edge. 


GEORGE'S  EYES  371 

Edwin's  democratic  sense  was  gradually  growing  in 
force;  it  disturbed  more  and  more  the  peace  of  his  in- 
most mind.  He  seldom  displayed  his  sympathies  (save 
to  Tertius  Ingpen  who,  though  a  Tory,  was  in  some 
ways  astoundingly  open  to  ideas,  which  seemed  to  in- 
terest him  as  a  pretty  equation  would  interest  him), 
but  they  pursued  their  secret  activity  in  his  being,  an- 
noying him  at  his  lithographic  works,  and  still  more 
in  his  home.  He  would  suppress  them,  and  grin,  and 
repeat  his  ancient  consoling  truth  that  what  was,  was. 
The  relief,  however,  was  not  permanent. 

In  that  year  the  discovery  of  Rontgen  Rays,  the 
practical  invention  of  the  incandescent  gas-mantle,  the 
abolition  of  the  man  with  the  red  flag  in  front  of  self- 
propelled  vehicles,  and  the  fact  that  Consols  stood 
at  113,  had  combined  to  produce  in  innumerable 
hearts  the  illusion  that  civilisation  was  advancing  at  a 
great  rate.  But  Edwin  in  his  soul  scarcely  thought 
so.  He  was  worrying  not  only  about  Liberal  prin- 
ciples, but  about  the  world;  in  his  youth  he  had  never 
worried  about  the  world.  And  of  his  own  personal 
success  he  would  ask  and  ask:  Is  it  right?  He  said  to 
himself  in  the  bathroom:  "There's  a  million  domestic 
servants  in  this  blessed  country,  and  not  one  of  them 
works  less  than  a  hundred  hours  a  week,  and  nobody 
cares.  I  don't  think  I  really  care  myself.  But  there 
it  is  all  the  same !"  And  he  was  darkly  resentful  against 
Hilda  on  account  of  the  entire  phenomenon.  .  .  . 
He  foresaw,  too,  a  period  of  upset  and  discomfort  in 
his  house.  Would  there,  indeed,  ever  be  any  real  tran- 
quillity in  his  house,  with  that  strange,  primeval  cave- 
woman  in  charge  of  it? 

As  he  descended  the  stairs,  Hilda  came  out  of  the 
dining-room  with  an  empty  tray. 

She  said: 


372  THESE  TWAIN 

"I  wish  you'd  go  out  and  look  for  George." 

Imagine  it — going  out  into  the  Five  Towns  to  look 
for  one  boy! 

"Oh !  He'll  be  all  right.  I  suppose  you  haven't  for- 
gotten Ingpen's  coming  to-night." 

"Of  course  I  haven't.  But  I  want  you  to  go  out 
and  look  for  George." 

He  knew  what  was  in  her  mind, — namely  an  absurd 
vision  of  George  and  his  new  bicycle  crushed  under 
a  tramcar  somewhere  between  Bleakridge  and  Han- 
bridge.  In  that  year  everybody  with  any  pretension 
to  youthfulness  and  modernity  rode  a  bicycle.  Both 
Edwin  and  Hilda  rode  occasionally — such  was  the 
power  of  fashion.  Maternal  apprehensions  had  not 
sufficed  to  keep  George  from  having  a  bicycle,  nor  from 
riding  on  it  unprotected  up  and  down  the  greasy 
slopes  of  Trafalgar  Road  to  and  from  school.  Edwin 
himself  had  bought  the  bicycle,  pooh-poohing  danger, 
and  asserting  that  anyhow  normal  risks  must  always 
be  accepted  with  an  even  mind. 

He  was  about  to  declare  that  he  would  certainly 
not  do  anything  so  silly  as  to  go  out  and  look  for 
George, — and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  had  the  queer 
sensation  of  being  alone  with  Hilda  in  the  house  made 
strange  and  romantic  by  a  domestic  calamity.  He 
gazed  at  Hilda  with  her  apron,  and  the  calamity  had 
made  her  strange  and  romantic  also.  He  was  vexed, 
annoyed,  despondent,  gloomy,  fearful  of  the  imme- 
diate future;  he  had  immense  grievances;  he  hated 
Hilda,  he  loathed  giving  way  to  her.  He  thought: 
"What  is  it  binds  me  to  this  incomprehensible 
woman?  I  will  not  be  bound!"  But  he  felt  that 
he  would  be  compelled  (not  by  her  but  by  some- 
thing in  himself)  to  commit  the  folly  of  going  out 
to  look  for  George.  And  he  felt  that  though  his  ex- 


GEORGE'S  EYES  373 

istence  was  an  exasperating  adventure,  still  it  was  an 
adventure. 

"Oh !  Damn !"  he  exploded,  and  reached  for  a  cap. 

And  then  George  came  into  the  hall  through  the 
kitchen.  The  boy  often  preferred  to  enter  by  the  back, 
the  stalking  Indian  way. 


rv 


George  wore  spectacles.  He  had  grown  consider- 
ably. He  was  now  between  fourteen  and  fifteen  years 
of  age,  and  he  had  begun  to  look  his  age.  His  mental 
outlook  and  conversation  were  on  the  whole  in  advance 
of  his  age.  Even  when  he  was  younger  he  had  fre- 
quently an  adult  manner  of  wise  talking,  but  it  had 
appeared  unreal,  naive, — it  was  amusing  rather  than 
convincing.  Now  he  imposed  himself  even  on  his  family 
as  a  genuine  adolescent,  though  the  idiom  he  employed 
was  often  schoolboyish  and  his  gestures  were  immature- 
ly  rough.  The  fact  was  he  was  not  the  same  boy.  Every- 
body noticed  it.  His  old  charm  and  delicacy  seemed  to 
have  gone,  and  his  voice  was  going.  He  had  become 
harsh,  defiant,  somewhat  brutal,  and  egotistic  if  not 
conceited.  He  held  a  very  low  opinion  of  all  his  school- 
fellows, and  did  not  conceal  it.  Yet  he  was  not  very 
high  in  his  form  (the  lower  fifth)  ;  his  reports  were 
mediocre;  and  he  cut  no  figure  in  the  playfield.  In 
the  home  he  was  charged  with  idleness,  selfishness,  and 
irresolution.  It  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  was 
not  making  the  best  of  his  gifts,  and  that  if  he  only 
chose  to  make  the  best  of  them  he  might  easily,  etc., 
etc.  Apparently  he  did  not  care  a  bit.  He  had  marked 
facility  on  the  piano,  but  he  had  insisted  on  giving  up 
his  piano  lessons  and  would  not  open  the  piano  for  a 
fortnight  at  a  time.  He  still  maintained  his  intention 


374  THESE  TWAIN 

of  being  an  architect,  but  he  had  ceased  to  show  any 
interest  in  architecture.  He  would,  however,  still  paint 
in  water-colours;  and  he  read  a  lot,  but  gluttonously, 
without  taste.  Edwin  and  Hilda,  and  especially  Hilda, 
did  not  hide  their  discontent.  Hilda  had  outbursts 
against  him.  In  regard  to  Hilda  he  was  disobedient. 
Edwin  always  spoke  quietly  to  him,  and  was  seldom 
seriously  disobeyed.  When  disobeyed  Edwin  would 
show  a  taciturn  resentment  against  the  boy,  who  would 
sulk  and  then  melt. 

"Oh!  He'll  grow  out  of  it,"  Edwin  would  say  to 
Hilda,  yet  Edwin,  like  Hilda,  thought  that  the  boy 
was  deliberately  naughty,  and  they  held  themselves 
towards  him  as  grieved  persons  of  superior  righteous- 
ness towards  a  person  of  inferior  righteousness.  Not 
even  Edwin  reflected  that  profound  molecular  changes 
might  be  proceeding  in  George's  brain,  for  which 
changes  he  was  in  no  way  responsible.  Nevertheless, 
despite  the  blighting  disappointment  of  George's  evo- 
lution, the  home  was  by  no  means  deeply  engloomed. 
No !  George  had  an  appealing  smile,  a  mere  gawky 
boyishness,  a  peculiar  way  of  existing,  that  somehow 
made  joy  in  the  home.  Also  he  was  a  centre  of  intense 
and  continual  interest,  and  of  this  he  was  very  well 
aware. 

In  passing  through  the  kitchen  George  had  of  course 
been  struck  by  the  astounding  absence  of  the  cook; 
he  had  noticed  further  a  fancy  apron  and  a  cap  lying 
on  the  window  sill  therein.  And  when  he  came  into  the 
hall,  the  strange  aspect  of  his  mother  (in  a  servant's 
apron)  and  his  uncle  proved  to  him  that  something 
marvellously  unusual,  exciting,  and  uplifting  was 
afoot.  He  was  pleased,  agog,  and  he  had  the  addi- 
tional satisfaction  that  great  events  would  conveniently 
divert  attention  from  his  lateness.  Still  he  must  be 


GEORGE'S  EYES  375 

discreet,  for  the  adults  were  evidently  at  loggerheads, 
and  therefore  touchy.  He  slipped  between  Edwin  and 
Hilda  with  a  fairly  good  imitation  of  innocent  casual- 
ness,  as  if  saying:  "Whatever  has  occurred,  I  am 
guiltless,  and  going  on  just  as  usual." 

"Ooh!  Bags  I!"  he  exclaimed  loudly,  at  the  hall- 
table,  and  seized  the  indiarubber,  which  Edwin  had 
promised  him.  His  school  vocabulary  comprised  an  ex- 
traordinary number  of  words  ending  in  gs.  He  would 
never,  for  example,  say  "first,"  but  "f oggs" ;  and  never 
"second,"  but  "seggs."  That  very  morning,  for  ex- 
ample, meeting  Hilda  on  the  mat  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  he  had  shocked  her  by  saying:  "You  go  up 
foggs,  mother,  and  I'll  go  seggs." 

"George!"  Hilda  severely  protested.  Her  anxiety 
concerning  him  was  now  turned  into  resentment. 
"Have  you  had  an  accident?" 

"An  accident?"  said  George,  as  though  at  a  loss. 
Yet  he  knew  perfectly  that  his  mother  was  referring 
to  the  bicycle. 

Edwin  said  curtly: 

"Now,  don't  play  the  fool.  Have  you  fallen  off 
your  bike?  Look  at  your  overcoat.  Don't  leave  that 
satchel  there,  and  hang  your  coat  up  properly." 

The  overcoat  was  in  a  grievous  state.  A  few  days 
earlier  it  had  been  new.  Besides  money,  it  had  cost 
an  enormous  amount  of  deliberation  and  discussion,  like 
everything  else  connected  with  George.  Against  his 
will,  Edwin  himself  had  been  compelled  to  conduct 
George  to  Shillitoe's,  the  tailor's,  and  superintend  a 
third  trying-on,  for  further  alterations,  after  the  over- 
coat was  supposed  to  be  finished.  And  lo,  now  it  had  no 
quality  left  but  warmth!  Efforts  in  regard  to  George 
were  always  thus  out  of  proportion  to  the  trifling  re- 
sults obtained.  At  George's  age  Edwin  doubtless  had 


376  THESE  TWAIN 

an  overcoat,  but  he  positively  could  not  remember  hav- 
ing one,  and  he  was  quite  sure  that  no  schoolboy  over- 
coat of  his  had  ever  preoccupied  a  whole  household  for 
two  minutes,  to  say  nothing  of  a  week. 

George's  face  expressed  a  sense  of  injury,  and  his 
face  hardened. 

"Mother  made  me  take  my  overcoat.  You  know  I 
can't  cycle  in  my  overcoat.  I've  not  been  on  my 
bicycle  all  day.  Also  my  lamp's  broken,"  he  said,  with 
gloomy  defiance. 

His  curiosity  about  wondrous  events  in  the  house 
was  quenched. 

And  Edwin  felt  angry  with  Hilda  for  having  quite 
unjustifiably  assumed  that  George  had  gone  to  school 
on  his  bicycle.  Ought  she  not  to  have  had  the  ordinary 
gumption  to  assure  herself,  before  worrying,  that  the 
lad's  bicycle  was  not  in  the  shed?  Incredible  thought- 
lessness! All  these  alarms  for  nothing! 

"Then  why  are  you  so  late?"  Hilda  demanded,  di- 
verting to  George  her  indignation  at  Edwin's  unut- 
tered  but  yet  conveyed  criticism  of  herself. 

"Kept  in." 

"All  this  time?"  Hilda  questioned,  suspiciously. 

George  sullenly  nodded. 

"What  for?"  " 

"Latin." 

"Homework?  Again?"  ejaculated  Edwin.  "Why 
hadn't  you  done  it  properly?" 

"I  had  a  headache  last  night.  And  I've  got  one 
to-day." 

"Another  of  your  Latin  headaches!"  said  Edwin 
sarcastically.  There  was  nothing,  except  possibly  cod 
liver  oil,  that  George  detested  more  than  Edwin's  se- 
rious sarcasm. 

The    elders    glanced    at    one    another    and   glanced 


GEORGE'S  EYES  377 

away.  Both  had  the  same  fear — the  dreadful  fear 
that  George  might  be  developing  the  worse  character- 
istics of  his  father.  Both  had  vividly  in  mind  the  fact 
that  this  boy  was  the  son  of  George  Cannon.  They 
never  mentioned  to  each  other  either  the  fear  or  the 
fact ;  they  dared  not.  But  each  knew  the  thoughts  of 
the  other.  The  boy  was  undoubtedly  crafty ;  he  could 
conceal  subtle  designs  under  a  simple  exterior;  he  was 
also  undoubtedly  secretive.  The  recent  changes  in  his 
disposition  had  put  Edwin  and  Hilda  on  their  guard, 
and  every  time  young  George  displayed  cunning,  or 
economised  the  truth,  or  lied,  the  fear  visited  them. 
"I  hope  he'll  turn  out  all  right !"  Hilda  had  said  once. 
Edwin  had  nearly  replied:  "What  are  you  worrying 
about?  The  sons  of  honest  men  are  often  rascals. 
Why  on  earth  shouldn't  the  son  of  a  rascal  be  an 
honest  man?"  But  he  had  only  said,  with  good-hu- 
moured impatience:  "Of  course  he'll  turn  out  all 
right!"  Not  that  he  himself  was  convinced. 

Edwin  now  attacked  the  boy  gloomily : 

"You  didn't  seem  to  have  much  of  a  headache  when 
you  came  in  just  now." 

It  was  true. 

But  George  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  His  head- 
aches were  absolutely  genuine.  The  emptiness  of  the 
kitchen  and  the  general  queer  look  of  things  in  the 
house  had,  however,  by  their  promise  of  adventurous 
happenings,  caused  him  to  forget  his  headache  alto- 
gether, and  the  discovery  of  the  new  indiarubber  had 
been  like  a  tonic  to  a  convalescent.  The  menacing  at- 
titude of  the  elders  had  now  brought  about  a  relapse. 
The  headache  established  itself  as  his  chief  physical 
sensation.  His  chief  moral  sensation  was  that  of  a  ter- 
rible grievance.  He  did  not  often  cry ;  he  had  not  in- 
deed cried  for  about  a  year.  But  to-night  there  was 


378  THESE  TWAIN 

something  nervous  in  the  very  air,  and!  the  sob  took  Kim 
unawares.  The  first  sob  having  prostrated  all  resist- 
ance, others  followed  victoriously,  and  there  was  no 
stopping  them.  He  did  not  quite  know  why  he  should 
have  been  more  liable  to  cry  on  this  particular  occa- 
sion than  on  certain  others,  and  he  was  rather 
ashamed ;  on  the  other  hand  it  was  with  an  almost  ma- 
licious satisfaction  that  he  perceived  the  troubling  ef- 
fect of  his  tears  on  the  elders.  They  were  obviously 
in  a  quandary.  Serve  them  right! 

"It's  my  eyes,"  he  blubbered.  "I  told  you  these 
specs  would  never  suit  me.  But  you  wouldn't  believe 
me,  and  the  headmaster  won't  believe  me.5* 

The  discovery  that  George's  eyesight  was  defective, 
about  two  months  earlier,  had  led  to  a  desperate  but 
of  course  hopeless  struggle  on  his  part  against  the 
wearing  of  spectacles.  It  was  curious  that  in  the 
struggle  he  had  never  even  mentioned  his  strongest 
objection  to  spectacles, — namely,  the  fact  that  Bert 
Benbow  wore  spectacles. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us?"  Edwin  demanded. 

Between  sobs  George  replied  with  overwhelming  dis- 
illusioned disgust: 

"What's  the  good  of  telling  you  anything?  You 
only  think  I'm  codding." 

And  he  passed  upstairs,  apparently  the  broken 
victim  of  fate  and  parents,  but  in  reality  triumphant. 
His  triumph  was  such  that  neither  Edwin  nor  Hilda 
dared  even  to  protest  against  the  use  of  such  an  in- 
excusable word  as  'codding.' 

Hilda  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  Edwin  rather  aim- 
lessly followed  her.  He  felt  incompetent.  He  could 
do  nothing  except  carry  trays,  and  he  had  no  desire  to 
carry  trays.  Neither  spoke.  Hilda  was  bending  over 
the  fire,  then  she  arranged  the  grid  in  front  of  the 


GEORGE'S  EYES  879 

fire  to  hold  a  tin,  and  she  greased  the  tin.  He  thought 
she  looked  very  wistful,  for  all  the  somewhat  bitter 
sturdiness  of  her  demeanour.  Tertius  Ingpen  was  due 
for  the  evening;  she  had  no  servants — through  her 
own  fault;  and  now  a  new  phase  had  arrived  in  the 
unending  responsibility  for  George's  welfare.  He 
knew  that  she  was  blaming  him  on  account  of  George. 
He  knew  that  she  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  George's 
outburst ;  he  believed  in  it  himself.  The  spectacles  were 
wrong;  the  headache  was  genuine.  And  he,  Edwin, 
was  guilty  of  the  spectacles  because  he  had  forced 
Hilda,  by  his  calm  bantering  commonsense,  to  consult 
a  small  local  optician  of  good  reputation. 

Hilda  had  wanted  to  go  to  Birmingham  or  Man- 
chester; but  Edwin  said  that  such  an  idea  was 
absurd.  The  best  local  optician  was  good  enough 
for  the  great  majority  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Five 
Towns  and  would  be  good  enough  for  George.  Why 
not  indeed?  Why  the  craze  for  specialists? 
There  could  be  nothing  uniquely  wrong  with  the 
boy's  eyes, — it  was  a  temporary  weakness.  And 
so  on  and  so  on,  in  accordance  with  Edwin's 
instinct  for  denying  the  existence  of  a  crisis.  And 
the  local  optician,  consulted,  had  borne  him  out.  The 
local  optician  said  that  every  year  he  dealt  with 
dozens  of  cases  similar  to  George's.  And  now  both 
the  local  optician  and  Edwin  were  overthrown  by  a 
boy's  sobbing  tears. 

Suddenly  Hilda  turned  round  upon  her  husband. 

"I  shall  take  George  to  London  to-morrow  about 
his  eyes,"  she  said,  with  immense  purpose  and  sin- 
cerity, in  a  kind  of  fierce  challenge. 

This  was  her  amends  to  George  for  having  often 
disbelieved  him,  and  for  having  suspected  him  of  tak- 
ing after  his  father.  She  made  her  amends  passion- 


380  [THESE  TWAIN 

atelj,  and  with  all  the  force  of  her  temperament.  In 
her  eyes  George  was  now  a  martyr. 

"To  London?"  exclaimed  Edwin  weakly. 

"Yes.  It's  no  use  half  doing  these  things.  I  shall 
ask  Charlie  Orgreave  to  recommend  me  a  first-class 
oculist." 

Edwin  dared  say  nothing.  Either  Manchester  or 
Birmingham  would  have  been  just  as  good  as  London, 
perhaps  better.  Moreover,  she  had  not  even  consulted 
him.  She  had  decided  by  a  violent  impulse  and  an- 
nounced her  decision.  This  was  not  right;  she  would 
have  protested  against  a  similar  act  by  Edwin.  But 
he  could  not  argue  with  her.  She  was  far  beyond  ar- 
gument. 

"I  wouldn't  have  that  boy's  eyesight  played  with 
for  anything!"  she  said  fiercely. 

"Well,  of  course  you  wouldn't!  Who  would?"  Ed- 
win thought,  but  he  did  not  say  it. 

"Go  and  see  what  he's  doing,"  she  said. 

Edwin  slouched  off.  He  was  no  longer  the  master 
of  the  house.  He  was  only  an  economic  factor  and 
general  tool  in  the  house.  And  as  he  wandered  like 
a  culprit  up  the  stairs  of  the  mysteriously  transformed 
dwelling  he  thought  again :  "What  is  it  that  binds  me 
to  her?"  But  he  was  abashed  and  in  spite  of  himself 
impressed  by  the  intensity  of  Hilda's  formidable  emo- 
tion. Nevertheless  as  he  began  vaguely  to  perceive  all 
that  was  involved  in  her  threat  to  go  to  London  on 
the  morrow,  he  stiffened,  and  said  to  himself:  "We 
shall  see  about  that.  We  shall  just  see  about  that!" 


They  were  at  the  meal.    Hilda  had  covered  George's 
portion  of  fish  with  a  plate  and  put  it  before  the  fire 


GEORGE'S  EYES  381 

to  keep  warm.  She  was  just  returning  to  the  table. 
Tertius  Ingpen,  who  sat  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  looked 
at  her  over  his  shoulder  with  an  admiring  smile  and 
said: 

"Well,  I've  had  some  good  meals  in  this  house,  but 
this  is  certainly  the  best  bit  of  fish  I  ever  tasted.  So 
that  the  catastrophe  in  the  kitchen  leaves  me  unmoved." 

Hilda,  with  face  suddenly  transformed  by  a  respon- 
sive smile,  insinuated  herself  between  the  table  and  her 
arm-chair,  drew  forward  the  chair  by  its  arms,  and 
sat  down.  Her  keen  pleasure  in  the  compliment  was 
obvious.  Edwin  noted  that  the  meal  was  really  very 
well  served,  the  table  brighter  than  usual,  the  toast 
crisper,  and  the  fish — a  fine  piece  of  hake  white  as 
snow  within  its  browned  exterior — merely  perfect. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Hilda  could  be  extremely  ef- 
ficient when  she  desired;  Edwin's  criticism  was  that 
she  was  too  often  negligent,  and  that  in  her  moods  of 
conscientiousness  she  gave  herself  too  urgently  and 
completely,  producing  an  unnecessary  disturbance  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  home.  Nevertheless  Edwin  too 
felt  pleasure  in  the  compliment  to  Hilda;  and  he 
calmly  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  his  wife  and  his  friend 
side  by  side  on  such  mutually  appreciative  terms.  The 
intimacy  of  the  illuminated  table  in  the  midst  of  the 
darker  room,  the  warmth  and  crackling  of  the  fire,  the 
grave  solidity  of  the  furniture,  the  springiness  of  the 
thick  carpet,  and  the  delicate  odours  of  the  repast, — 
all  these  things  satisfied  in  him  something  that  was 
profound.  And  the  two  mature,  vivacious,  intelligent 
faces  under  the  shaded  gas  excited  his  loyal  affection. 

"That's  right,"  Hilda  murmured,  in  her  clear  enun- 
ciation. "I  do  like  praise !" 

"Now  then,  you  callous  brute,"  said  Ingpen  to  Ed- 
win. "What  do  you  say?" 


382  THESE  TWAIN 

And  Hilda  cried  with  swift,  complaining  sincerity: 

"Oh !  Edwin  never  praises  me !" 

Her  sincerity  convinced  by  its  very  artlessness.  The 
complaint  had  come  unsought  from  her  heart.  And 
it  was  so  spontaneous  and  forcible  that  Tertius  Ing- 
pen,  as  a  tactful  guest,  saw  the  advisability  of  easing 
the  situation  by  laughter. 

"Yes,  I  do!"  Edwin  protested,  and  though  he  was 
shocked,  he  laughed,  in  obedience  to  Ingpen's  cue.  It 
was  true ;  he  did  praise  her ;  but  not  frequently,  and  al- 
most always  in  order  to  flatter  her  rather  than  to  ex- 
press his  own  emotion.  Edwin  did  not  care  for  praising 
people ;  he  would  enthusiastically  praise  a  book,  but  not 
a  human  being.  His  way  was  to  take  efficiency  for  grant- 
ed. "Not  so  bad,"  was  a  superlative  of  laudation  with 
him.  He  was  now  shocked  as  much  by  the  girl's  outrage- 
ous candour  as  by  the  indisputable  revelation  that  she 
went  hungry  for  praise.  Even  to  a  close  friend  such  as 
Ingpen,  surely  a  wife  had  not  the  right  to  be  quite  so 
desperately  sincere.  Edwin  considered  that  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  person  husband  and  wife  should  always 
at  any  cost  maintain  the  convention  of  perfect  conjugal 
amenity.  He  knew  couples  who  achieved  the  feat, — Al- 
bert and  Clara,  for  example.  But  Hilda,  he  surmised, 
had  other  ideas,  if  indeed  she  had  ever  consciously  re- 
flected upon  this  branch  of  social  demeanour.  Certainly 
she  seemed  at  moments  to  lose  all  regard  for  appear- 
ances. 

Moreover,  she  was  polluting  by  acerbity  the  pure 
friendliness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  endangering 
cheer. 

"He's  too  wrapped  up  in  the  works  to  think  about 
praising  his  wife,"  Hilda  continued,  still  in  the  discon- 
certing vein  of  sincerity,  but  with  less  violence  and  a 
more  philosophical  air.  The  fact  was  that,  although 


GEORGE'S  EYES  383 

she  had  not  regained  the  zest  of  the  mood  so  rudely 
dissipated  by  the  scene  with  Ada,  she  was  kept  cheerful 
by  the  mere  successful  exercise  of  her  own  energy  in 
proving  to  these  two  men  that  servants  were  not  in  the 
least  essential  to  the  continuance  of  plenary  comfort 
in  her  house;  and  she  somewhat  condescended  towards 
Edwin. 

"By  the  way,  Teddie,"  said  Ingpen,  pulling  lightly  at 
his  short  beard,  "I  heard  a  rumour  that  you  were  going 
to  stand  for  the  Town  Council  in  the  South  ward.  Why 
didn't  you?" 

Edwin  looked  a  little  confused. 

"Who  told  you  that  tale?" 

"It  was  about." 

"It  never  came  from  me,"  said  Edwin. 

Hilda  broke  in  eagerly: 

"He  was  invited  to  stand.  But  he  wouldn't.  I 
thought  he  ought  to.  I  begged  him  to.  But  no,  he 
wouldn't.  And  did  you  know  he  refused  a  J.  P.  ship 
too?" 

"Oh!"  mumbled  Edwin.  "That  sort  o'  thing's  not 
my  line." 

"Oh,  isn't  it !"  Ingpen  exclaimed.  "Then  whose  line 
is  it?" 

"Look  at  all  the  rotters  in  the  Council!"  said  Ed- 
win. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  be  on  it!" 

"Well,  I've  got  no  time,"  Edwin  finished  gloomily 
and  uneasily. 

Ingpen  paused,  tapping  his  teeth  with  his  finger, 
before  proceeding,  in  a  judicial,  thoughtful  manner 
which  in  recent  years  he  had  been  developing: 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  you,  old  man. 
You  don't  know  it,  but  you're  in  a  groove.  You  go 
about  like  a  shuttle  from  the  house  to  the  works  and 


384  THESE  TWAIN 

the  works  to  the  house.  And  you  never  think  beyond 
the  works  and  the  house." 

"Oh,  don't  I?" 

Ingpen  went  placidly  on : 

"No,  you  don't.  You've  become  a  good  specimen  of 
the  genus  'domesticated  business  man.'  You've  for- 
gotten what  life  is.  You  fancy  you're  at  full  stretch 
all  the  time,  but  you're  in  a  coma.  I  suppose  you'll 
never  see  forty  again — and  have  you  ever  been  outside 
this  island?  You  went  to  Llandudno  this  year  because 
you  went  last  year.  And  you'll  go  next  year  because 
you  went  this  year.  If  you  happen  now  and  then  to 
worry  about  the  failure  of  your  confounded  Liberal 
Party  you  think  you're  a  blooming  broad-minded  pub- 
licist. Where  are  your  musical  evenings?  When  I 
asked  you  to  go  with  me  to  a  concert  at  Manchester 
last  week  but  one,  you  thought  I'd  gone  dotty,  simply 
because  it  meant  your  leaving  the  works  early  and  not 
getting  to  bed  until  the  unheard-of-time  of  one  thirty 
a.  m." 

"I  was  never  told  anything  about  any  concert,"  Hilda 
interjected  sharply. 

"Go  on!    Go  on!"  said  Edwin  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"I  will,"  said  Ingpen  with  tranquillity,  as  though 
discussing  impartially  and  impersonally  the  conduct 
of  some  individual  at  the  Antipodes.  "Where  am  1? 
Well,  you're  always  buying  books,  and  I  believe  you 
reckon  yourself  a  bit  of  a  reader.  What  d'you  get 
out  of  them?  I  daresay  you've  got  decided  views  on 
the  transcendent  question  whether  Emily  Bronte  was 
a  greater  writer  than  Charlotte.  That's  about  what 
you've  got.  Why,  dash  it,  you  haven't  a  vice  left.  A 
vice  would  interfere  with  your  lovely  litho.  There's 
only  one  thing  that  would  upset  you  more  than  a  ma- 
chinery breakdown  at  the  works " 


GEORGE'S  EYES  385 

"And  what's  that?" 

"What's  that?  If  one  of  the  hinges  of  your  gar- 
den-gate came  off,  or  you  lost  your  latchkey!  Why, 
just  look  how  you've  evidently  been  struck  all  of  a 
heap  by  this  servant  affair!  I  expect  it  occurred  to 
you  your  breakfast  might  be  five  minutes  late  in  the 
morning." 

"Stuff!"  said  Edwin,  amiably.  He  regarded  Ing- 
pen's  observations  as  fantastically  unjust  and  beside 
the  mark.  But  his  sense  of  fairness  and  his  admira- 
tion of  the  man's  intellectual  honesty  would  not  allow 
him  to  resent  them.  Ingpen  would  discuss  and  dissect 
either  his  friends  or  himself  with  equal  detachment ;  the 
detachment  was  complete.  And  his  assumption  that 
his  friends  fully  shared  his  own  dispassionate,  curious 
interest  in  arriving  at  the  truth  appealed  very  strongly 
to  Edwin's  loyalty.  That  Ingpen  was  liable  to  preach 
and  even  to  hector  was  a  drawback  which  he  silently 
accepted. 

"Struck  all  of  a  heap  indeed!"  muttered  Edwin. 

"Wasn't  he,  Hilda?" 

"I  should  just  say  he  was !  And  I  know  he  thinks 
it's  all  my  fault,"  said  Hilda. 

Tertius  Ingpen  glanced  at  her  an  instant,  and  gave 
a  short  half-cynical  laugh,  which  scarcely  concealed 
his  mild  scorn  of  her  feminine  confusion  of  the  argu- 
ment. 

"It's  the  usual  thing!"  said  Ingpen,  with  scorn  still 
more  marked.  At  this  stage  of  a  dissertation  he  was 
inclined  to  be  less  a  human  being  than  the  trumpet  of  a 
sacred  message.  "It's  the  usual  thing!  I  never  knew 
a  happy  marriage  yet  that  didn't  end  in  the  same 
way."  Then,  perceiving  that  he  was  growing  too  earn- 
est, and  that  his  emphasis  on  the  phrase  'happy  mar- 
riage' had  possibly  been  too  sarcastic,  he  sniggered. 


386  THESE  TWAIN 

"I  really  don't  see  what  marriage  has  to  do  with  it," 
said  Hilda,  frowning. 

"No,  of  course  you  don't,"  Ingpen  agreed. 

"If  you'd  said  business "  she  added. 

"Now  we've  had  the  diagnosis,"  Edwin  sardonically 
remarked,  looking  at  his  plate,  "what's  the  prescrip- 
tion?" He  was  reflecting:  "'Happy  marriage,'  does 
he  call  it !  ...  Why  on  earth  does  she  say  I  think 
it's  all  her  fault?  I've  not  breathed  a  word." 

"Well,"  replied  Ingpen.  "You  live  much  too  close 
to  your  infernal  works.  Why  don't  you  get  away, 
right  away,  and  live  out  in  the  country  like  a  sensible 
man,  instead  of  sticking  in  this  filthy  hole — among  all 
these  new  cottages?  .  .  .  Barbarian  hordes.  ..." 

"Oh!  Hurrah!"  cried  Hilda.  "At  last  I've  got 
somebody  who  takes  my  side." 

"Of  course  you  say  it's  impossible.  You  naturally 
would "  Ingpen  resumed. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  George.  Soon 
after  Tertius  Ingpen's  arrival,  George  had  been  des- 
patched to  summon  urgently  Mrs.  Tarns,  the  char- 
woman who  had  already  more  than  once  helped  to  fill 
a  hiatus  between  two  cooks.  George  showed  now  no 
trace  of  his  late  martyrdom,  nor  of  a  headache.  To 
conquer  George  in  these  latter  days  you  had  to  de- 
mand of  him  a  service.  It  was  Edwin  who  had  first 
discovered  the  intensity  of  the  boy's  desire  to  take  a  use- 
ful share  in  any  adult  operation  whatever.  He  came 
in  red-cheeked,  red-handed,  rough,  defiant,  shy,  proud, 
and  making  a  low  intermittent  "Oo-oo"  noise  with  pro- 
truding lips  to  indicate  the  sharpness  of  the  frost  out- 
side. As  he  had  already  greeted  Ingpen  he  was  able 
to  go  without  ceremony  straight  to  his  chair. 

Confidentially,  in  the  silence,  Hilda  raised  her  eye- 
brows to  him  interrogatively.  In  reply  he  gave  one 


GEORGE'S  EYES  387 

short  nod.  Thus  in  two  scarcely  perceptible  gestures 
the  assurance  was  asked  for  and  given  that  the  mission 
had  been  successful  and  that  Mrs.  Tarns  would  be  com- 
ing up  at  once.  George  loved  these  private  and  la- 
conic signallings,  which  produced  in  him  the  illusion 
that  he  was  getting  nearer  to  the  enigma  of  life. 

As  he  persisted  in  the  "Oo-oo"  manifestation,  Hilda 
amicably  murmured: 

"Hsh-hsh!" 

George  pressed  his  lips  swiftly  and  hermetically  to- 
gether, and  raised  his  eyebrows  in  protest  against  his 
own  indecorum.  He  glanced  at  his  empty  place ;  where- 
upon Hilda  glanced  informingly  in  the  direction  of  the 
fire,  and  George,  skilled  in  the  interpretation  of  minute 
signs,  skirted  stealthily  round  the  table  behind  his 
mother's  chair,  and  snatched  his  loaded  plate  from 
the  hearth. 

Nobody  said  a  word.  The  sudden  stoppage  of  the 
conversation  had  indeed  caused  a  slight  awkwardness 
among  the  elders.  George,  for  his  part,  was  quite  con- 
vinced that  they  had  been  discussing  his  eyesight. 

"Furnace  all  right  again,  sonny?"  asked  Edwin, 
quietly,  when  the  boy  had  sat  down.  Hilda  was  re- 
plenishing Ingpen's  plate. 

"Blop !"  muttered  George,  springing  up  aghast.  This 
meant  that  he  had  forgotten  the  furnace  in  the  cellar, 
source  of  heat  to  the  radiator  in  the  hall.  By  a  recent 
arrangement  he  received  sixpence  a  week  for  stoking  the 
furnace. 

"Never  mind!    It'll  do  afterwards,"  said  Edwin. 

But  George,  masticating  fish,  shook  his  head.  He 
must  be  stern  with  himself,  possibly  to  atone  for  his 
tears.  And  he  went  off  instantly  to  the  cellar. 

"Bit  chill,"  observed  Edwin  to  him  as  he  left  the 
room.  "A  bit  chilly"  was  what  he  meant;  but  George 


388  THESE  TWAIN 

delighted  to  chip  the  end  off  a  word,  and  when  Edwin 
chose  to  adopt  the  same  practice,  the  boy  took  it  as  a 
masonic  sign  of  profound  understanding  between  them. 

George  nodded  and  vanished.  And  both  Edwin  and 
Hilda  dwelt  in  secret  upon  his  boyish  charm,  and  affec- 
tionate satisfaction  mingled  with  and  softened  their 
apprehensions  and  their  brooding  responsibility  and  re- 
morse. They  thought:  "He  is  simply  exquisite,"  and 
in  their  hearts  apologised  to  him. 

Tertius  Ingpen  asked  suddenly : 

"What's  happened  to  the  young  man's  spectacles?" 

"They  don't  suit  him,"  said  Hilda  eagerly.  "They 
don't  suit  him  at  all.  They  give  him  headaches.  Ed- 
win would  have  me  take  him  to  the  local  man,  what's- 
his-name  at  Hanbridge.  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  risky, 
but  Edwin  would  have  it.  I'm  going  to  take  him  to 
London  to-morrow.  He's  been  having  headaches  for 
some  time  and  never  said  a  word.  I  only  found  it  out 
by  accident." 

"Surely,"  Ingpen  smiled,  "it's  contrary  to  George's 
usual  practice  to  hide  his  troubles  like  that,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh!"  said  Hilda.  "He's  rather  secretive,  you 
know." 

"I've  never  noticed,"  said  Ingpen,  "that  he  was  more 
secretive  than  most  of  us  are  about  a  grievance." 

Edwin,  secretly  agitated,  said  in  a  curious  light 
tone: 

"If  you  ask  me,  he  kept  it  quiet  just  to  pay  us  out." 

"Pay  you  out?    What  for?" 

"For  making  him  wear  spectacles  at  all.  These 
kids  want  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  understanding ;  but  that's 
my  contribution.  He  simply  said  to  himself:  'Well, 
if  they  think  they're  going  to  cure  my  eyesight  for 
me  with  their  beastly  specs  they  just  aren't,  and  I 
won't  tell  'em!'" 


GEORGE'S  EYES  389 

"Edwin!"  Hilda  protested  warmly.  "I  wonder  you 
can  talk  like  that !" 

Tertius  Ingpen  went  off  into  one  of  his  peculiar  long 
fits  of  laughter;  and  Edwin  quizzically  smiled,  feeling 
as  if  he  was  repaying  Hilda  for  her  unnecessary  in- 
sistence upon  the  fact  that  he  was  responsible  for  the 
choosing  of  an  optician.  Hilda,  suspecting  that  the 
two  men  saw  something  droll  which  was  hidden  from 
her,  blushed  and  then  laughed  in  turn,  somewhat  self- 
consciously. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  best  to  go  to  London,  about 
an  affair  like  eyesight?"  she  asked  Ingpen  pointedly. 

"The  chief  thing  in  these  cases,"  said  Ingpen  sol- 
emnly, "is  to  satisfy  the  maternal  instinct.  Yes,  I 
should  certainly  go  to  London.  If  Teddie  disagrees, 
I'm  against  him.  Who  are  you  going  to?" 

"You  are  horrid!"  Hilda  exclaimed,  and  added  with 
positiveness :  "I  shall  ask  Charlie  Orgreave  first.  He'll 
tell  me  the  best  man." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  belief  in  Charlie,"  said 
Ingpen. 

"I  have,"  said  Hilda,  who  had  seen  Charlie  at 
George's  bedside  when  nobody  knew  whether  George 
would  live  or  die. 

And  while  they  were  talking  about  Charlie  and  about 
Janet,  who  was  now  living  with  her  brother  at  Eating, 
the  sounds  of  George  stoking  the  furnace  below  came 
dully  up  through  the  floor-boards. 

"If  you  and  George  are  going  away,"  asked  Ing- 
pen, "what'll  happen  to  his  worship — with  not  a  ser- 
vant in  the  house?" 

This  important  point  had  been  occupying  Edwin's 
mind  ever  since  Hilda  had  first  announced  her  inten- 
tion to  go  to  London.  But  he  had  not  mentioned  it 
to  her,  nor  she  to  him,  their  relations  being  rather 


390  THESE  TWAIN 

delicate.  It  had,  for  him,  only  an  academic  interest, 
since  he  had  determined  that  she  should  not  go  to 
London  on  the  morrow.  Nevertheless  he  awaited  anx- 
iously the  reply. 

Hilda  answered  with  composure: 

"I'm  hoping  he'll  come  with  us." 

He  had  been  prepared  for  anything  but  this.  The 
proposition  was  monstrously  impossible.  Could  a  man 
leave  his  works  at  a  moment's  notice?  The  notion 
was  utterly  absurd. 

"That's  quite  out  of  the  question,"  he  said  at  once. 
He  was  absolutely  sincere.  The  effect  of  Ingpen's  dis- 
course was,  however,  such  as  to  upset  the  assured  dig- 
nity of  his  pronouncement ;  for  the  decision  was  simply 
an  illustration  of  Ingpen's  theory  concerning  him. 
He  blushed. 

"Why  is  it  out  of  the  question?"  demanded  Hilda, 
inimically  gazing  at  him. 

She  had  lost  her  lenient  attitude  towards  him  of 
the  afternoon.  Nevertheless,  reflecting  upon  Tertius 
Ingpen's  indictment  of  the  usual  happy  marriage,  she 
had  been  planning  the  expedition  to  London  as  a 
revival  of  romance  in  their  lives.  She  saw  it  as 
a  marvellous  rejuvenating  experience.  When  she 
thought  of  all  that  she  had  suffered,  and  all  that  Ed- 
win had  suffered,  in  order  that  they  might  come  to- 
gether, she  was  quite  desolated  by  the  prosaic  flatness 
of  the  ultimate  result.  Was  it  to  attain  their  present 
stolid  existence  that  they  had  endured  affliction  for 
a  decade?  She  wanted  passionately  to  break  the  mys- 
terious bands  that  held  them  both  back  from  ecstasy 
and  romance.  And  he  would  not  help  her.  He  would  not 
enter  into  her  desire.  She  had  known  that  he  would 
refuse.  He  refused  everything — he  was  so  set  in  his 
own  way.  Resentment  radiated  from  her. 


GEORGE'S  EYES  391 

"I  can't,"  said  Edwin.  "What  d'you  want  to  go  to- 
morrow for?  What  does  a  day  or  two  matter?" 

Then  she  loosed  her  tongue.  Why  to-morrow?  Be- 
cause you  couldn't  trifle  with  a  child's  eyesight.  Al- 
ready the  thing  had  been  dragging  on  for  goodness 
knew  how  long.  Every  day  might  be  of  importance. 
And  why  not  to-morrow?  They  could  shut  the  house 
up,  and  go  off  together  and  stay  at  Charlie's.  Hadn't 
Janet  asked  them  many  a  time?  Maggie  would  look 
out  for  new  servants.  And  Mrs.  Tarns  would  clean 
the  house.  It  was  really  the  best  way  out  of  the 
servant  question  too,  besides  being  the  best  for 
George. 

"And  there's  another  thing,"  she  went  on  without  a 
pause,  speaking  rapidly  and  clearly.  "Your  eyes  want 
seeing  to  as  well.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know?"  she 
sneered. 

"Mine!"  he  exclaimed.  "My  eyes  are  as  right  as 
rain."  It  was  not  true.  His  eyes  had  been  troubling 
him. 

"Then  why  have  you  had  a  double  candle-bracket 
fixed  at  your  bed-head,  when  a  single  one's  been  enough 
for  you  all  these  years?"  she  demanded. 

"I  just  thought  of  it,  that's  all,"  said  Edwin  glumly, 
and  with  no  attempt  to  be  diplomatic.  "Anyhow  I 
can't  go  to  London  to-morrow.  And  when  I  want  an 
oculist,"  he  finished  with  grimness,  "Hanbridge'll  be 
good  enough  for  me,  I'm  thinking." 

Strange,  she  had  never  before  said  a  word  to  him 
about  his  eyes ! 

"Then  what  shall  you  do  while  I'm  away?"  she  asked 
implacably. 

But  if  she  was  implacable,  he  also  could  be  impla- 
cable. If  she  insisted  on  leaving  him  in  the  lurch, — well, 
she  should  leave  him  in  the  lurch!  Tertius  Ingpen 


392  THESE  TWAIN 

was  witness  of  a  plain  breach  between  them.  It  was 
unfortunate;  it  was  wholly  Hilda's  fault;  but  he  had 
to  face  the  fact. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  curtly. 

The  next  moment  George  returned. 

"Hasn't  Mrs.  Tarns  been  quick,  mother?"  said 
George.  "She's  come." 


VI 

In  the  drawing-room,  after  the  meal,  Edwin  could 
hear  through  the  half  open  door  the  sounds  of  con- 
versation between  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Tarns,  with  an  occa- 
sional word  from  George,  who  was  going  to  help  Mrs. 
Tarns  to  "put  the  things  away"  after  she  had  washed 
and  wiped.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Tarns  was  very  gentle 
and  comforting.  Edwin's  indignant  pity  went  out  to 
her.  Why  should  Mrs.  Tarns  thus  cheerfully  bear  the 
misfortunes  of  others?  Why  should  she  at  a  moment's 
notice  leave  a  cottageful  of  young  children  and  a  hus- 
band liable  at  any  time  to  get  drunk  and  maim  either 
them  or  her,  in  order  to  meet  a  crisis  caused  by  Hilda's 
impulsiveness  and  lack  of  tact?  The  answer,  as  in  so 
many  cases,  was  of  course  economic.  Mrs.  Tarns  could 
not  afford  not  to  be  at  Mrs.  Clayhanger's  instant  call ; 
also  she  was  born  the  victim  of  her  own  altruism;  her 
soul  was  soft  like  her  plump  cushionlike  body,  and 
she  lived  as  naturally  in  injustice  as  a  fish  in  water. 
But  could  anything  excuse  those  who  took  advantage  of 
such  an  economic  system  and  such  a  devoted  nature? 
Edwin's  conscience  uneasily  stirred;  he  could  have 
blushed.  However,  he  was  helpless ;  and  he  was  basely 
glad  that  he  was  helpless,  that  it  was  no  affair  of 
his  after  all,  and  that  Mrs.  Tarns  had  thus  to  work 
out  her  destiny  to  his  own  benefit.  He  saw  in  her  a 


GEORGE'S  EYES  393 

seraph  for  the  next  world,  and  yet  in  this  world  he 
contentedly  felt  himself  her  superior.  And  her  voice, 
soothing,  acquiescent,  expressive  of  the  spirit  which 
gathers  in  extraneous  woes  as  the  mediaeval  saint  drew 
to  his  breast  the  swords  of  the  executioners,  continued 
to  murmur  in  the  hall. 

Edwin  thought: 

"I  alone  in  this  house  feel  the  real  significance  of 
Mrs.  Tarns.  I'm  sure  she  doesn't  feel  it  herself." 

But  these  reflections  were  only  the  vague  unimpor- 
tant background  to  the  great  matter  in  his  mind, — 
the  difficulty  with  Hilda.  When  he  had  entered  the 
house,  questions  of  gaslight  and  blinds  were  enormous 
to  him.  The  immense  general  question  of  servants  had 
diminished  them  to  a  trifle.  Then  the  question  of 
George's  headache  and  eyesight  had  taken  precedence. 
And  now  the  relations  of  husband  and  wife  were  mightily 
paramount  over  everything  else.  Tertius  Ingpen,  hav- 
ing as  usual  opened  the  piano,  was  idly  diverting  him- 
self with  strange  chords,  while  cigarette  smoke  rose 
into  his  eyes,  making  him  blink.  Like  Edwin,  Ingpen 
was  a  little  self-conscious  after  the  open  trouble  in  the 
dining-room.  It  would  have  been  absurd  to  pretend 
that  trouble  did  not  exist;  on  the  other  hand  the 
trouble  was  not  of  the  kind  that  could  be  referred  to, 
by  even  a  very  intimate  friend.  The  acknowledgment 
of  it  had  to  be  mute.  But  in  addition  to  being  self- 
conscious,  Ingpen  was  also  triumphant.  There  was  a 
peculiar  sardonic  and  somewhat  disdainful  look  on  his 
face  as  he  mused  over  the  chords,  trying  to  keep  the 
cigarette  smoke  out  of  his  eyes.  His  oblique  glance 
seemed  to  be  saying  to  Edwin:  "What  have  I  always 
told  you  about  women?  Well,  you've  married  and 
you  must  take  the  consequences.  Your  wife's  no  worse 
than  other  wives.  Here  am  I,  free !  And  wouldn't  you 


394  THESE  TWAIN 

like  to  be  in  my  place,  my  boy!  .  .  .  How  wise  I 
have  been!" 

Edwin  resented  these  unspoken  observations.  The 
contrast  between  Ingpen's  specious  support  and  flat- 
tery of  Hilda  when  she  was  present,  and  his  sardonic 
glance  when  she  was  absent,  was  altogether  too  marked. 
Himself  in  revolt  against  the  institution  of  marriage, 
Edwin  could  not  bear  that  Ingpen  should  attack  it. 
Edwin  had,  so  far  as  concerned  the  outside  world,  taken 
the  institution  of  marriage  under  his  protection.  More- 
over Ingpen's  glance  was  a  criticism  of  Hilda  such  as 
no  husband  ought  to  permit.  And  it  was  also  a  criti- 
cism of  the  husband — that  slave  and  dupe !  .  .  .  Yet, 
at  bottom  what  Edwin  resented  was  Ingpen's  contemp- 
tuous pity  for  the  slave  and  the  dupe. 

"Why  London — and  why  to-morrow?"  said  Edwin, 
cheerfully,  with  a  superior  philosophical  air,  as  though 
impartially  studying  an  argumentative  position,  as 
though  he  could  regard  the  temporary  vagaries  of  an 
otherwise  fine  sensible  woman  with  bland  detachment. 
He  said  it  because  he  was  obliged  to  say  something,  in 
order  to  prove  that  he  was  neither  a  slave  nor  a  dupe. 

"Ask  me  another,"  replied  Ingpen  curtly,  continuing 
to  produce  chords. 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Edwin  mysteriously,  firmly, 
and  loftily;  meaning  that,  if  his  opinion  were  invited, 
his  opinion  would  be  that  Hilda  would  not  go  away  to- 
morrow and  that  whenever  she  went  she  would  not  go 
to  London. 

He  had  decided  to  have  a  grand  altercation  with  his 
wife  that  night,  when  Ingpen  and  Mrs.  Tarns  had  de- 
parted and  George  was  asleep  and  they  had  the  house 
to  themselves.  He  knew  his  ground  and  he  could  force 
a  decisive  battle.  He  felt  no  doubt  as  to  the  result. 
The  news  of  his  triumph  should  reach  Ingpen. 


GEORGE'S  EYES  395 

Ingpen  was  apparently  about  to  take  up  the  conver- 
sation when  George  came  clumsily  and  noisily  into  the 
drawing-room.  All  his  charm  seemed  to  have  left  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  help,"  said  Edwin. 

"So  I  am,"  George  challenged  him ;  and,  lacking  the 
courage  to  stop  at  that  point,  added :  "But  they  aren't 
ready  yet." 

"Let's  try  those  Haydn  bits,  George,"  Ingpen  sug- 
gested. 

"Oh  no!"  said  George  curtly. 

Ingpen  and  the  boy  had  begun  to  play  easy  frag- 
ments of  duets  together. 

Edwin  said  with  sternness : 

"Sit  down  to  that  piano  and  do  as  Mr.  Ingpen  asks 
you." 

George  flushed  and  looked  foolish  and  sat  down ;  and 
Ingpen  quizzed  him.  All  three  knew  well  that  Edwin's 
fierceness  was  only  one  among  sundry  consequences  of 
the  mood  of  the  housemistress.  The  slow  movement  and 
the  scherzo  from  the  symphony  were  played.  And  while 
the  music  went  on,  Edwin  heard  distantly  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  the  front-door  and  an  arrival  in  the 
hall,  and  then  chattering.  Maggie  had  called.  "What's 
she  after?"  thought  Edwin. 

"Hoo!  There's  Auntie  Maggie!"  George  exclaimed, 
as  soon  as  the  scherzo  was  finished,  and  ran  off. 

"That  boy  is  really  musical,"  said  Ingpen  with  con- 
viction. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is,"  Edwin  agreed  casually,  as 
though  deprecating  a  talent  which  however  was  unde- 
niable. "But  you'd  never  guess  he's  got  a  bad  head- 
ache, would  you?" 

It  was  a  strange  kind  of  social  evening,  and  Hilda — 
it  seemed  to  the  august  Edwin — had  a  strange  notion 
of  the  duties  of  hostess.  Surely,  if  Mrs.  Tarns  was  in 


396  THESE  TWAIN 

the  kitchen,  Hilda  ought  to  be  in  the  drawing-room 
with  their  guest!  Surely  Maggie  ought  to  have  been 
brought  into  the  drawing-room, — she  was  not  a  school 
girl,  she  was  a  woman  of  over  forty,  and  yet  she  had 
quite  inexcusably  kept  her  ancient  awkwardness  and 
timidities.  He  could  hear  chatterings  from  the  dining- 
room,  scurryings  through  the  hall,  and  chatterings 
from  the  kitchen;  then  a  smash  of  crockery,  a  slight 
scream,  and  girlish  gigglings.  They  were  all  the  same, 
all  the  women  he  knew,  except  perhaps  Clara, — they  had 
hours  when  they  seemed  to  forget  that  they  were  adult 
and  that  their  skirts  were  long.  And  how  was  it  that 
Hilda  and  Maggie  were  suddenly  so  intimate,  they 
whose  discreet  mutual  jealousy  was  an  undeniable  phe- 
nomenon of  the  family  life?  With  all  his  majesty  he 
was  simpleton  enough  never  to  have  understood  that 
two  women  who  eternally  suspect  each  other  may  yet 
dissolve  upon  occasion  into  the  most  touching  playful 
tenderness.  The  whole  ground-floor  was  full  of  the  ru- 
mour of  an  apparent  alliance  between  Hilda  and  Mag- 
gie. And  as  he  listened  Edwin  glanced  sternly  at  the 
columns  of  the  evening  Signal,  while  Tertius  Ingpen, 
absorbed,  worked  his  way  bravely  through  a  sonata  of 
Beethoven. 

Then  George  reappeared. 

"Mother's  going  to  take  me  to  London  to-morrow 
about  my  eyes,"  said  George  to  Ingpen,  stopping  the 
sonata  by  his  mere  sense  of  the  terrific  importance  of 
such  tidings.  And  he  proceeded  to  describe  the  pro- 
jected doings  in  London,  the  visit  to  Charlie  and  Janet 
Orgreave,  and  possibly  to  the  Egyptian  Hall. 

Edwin  did  not  move.  He  kept  an  admirable  and  com- 
plete calm  under  the  blow.  Hilda  was  decided,  then,  to 
defy  him.  In  telling  the  boy,  who  during  the  meal  had 
been  permitted  to  learn  nothing,  she  had  burnt  her 


GEORGE'S  EYES  397 

boats;  she  had  even  burnt  Edwin's  boats  also:  which 
seemed  to  be  contrary  to  the  rules  laid  down  by  society 
for  conjugal  warfare, — but  women  never  could  fight 
according  to  rules !  The  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the 
great  pitched  battle  which  Edwin  had  planned  for  the 
close  of  the  evening  were  swiftly  multiplied.  He  had 
misgivings. 

The  chattering,  giggling  girls  entered  the  drawing- 
room.  But  as  Maggie  came  through  the  doorway  her 
face  stiffened ;  her  eyes  took  on  a  glaze ;  and  when  Ing- 
pen  bent  over  her  hand  in  all  the  false  ardour  of  his  ex- 
cessive conventional  chivalry,  the  spinster's  terrible  con- 
straint— scourge  of  all  her  social  existence — gripped 
her  like  a  disease.  She  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Hello,  Mag,"  Edwin  greeted  her. 

Impossible  to  divine  in  this  plump,  dowdy,  fading, 
dumb  creature  the  participator  in  all  those  chatterings 
and  gigglings  of  a  few  moments  earlier!  Nevertheless 
Edwin,  who  knew  her  profoundly,  could  see  beneath  the 
glaze  of  those  eyes  the  commonsense  soul  of  the  saga- 
cious woman  protesting  against  Ingpen's  affected  man- 
ners and  deciding  that  she  did  not  care  for  Ingpen  at 
all. 

"Auntie  Hamps  is  being  naughty  again,"  said  Hilda 
bluntly. 

Ingpen,  and  then  Edwin,  sniggered. 

"/  can't  do  anything  with  her,  Edwin,"  said  Maggie, 
speaking  quickly  and  eagerly,  as  she  and  Hilda  sat 
down.  "She's  bound  to  let  herself  in  for  another  attack 
if  she  doesn't  take  care  of  herself.  And  she  won't  take 
care  of  herself.  She  won't  listen  to  the  doctor  or  any- 
body else.  She's  always  on  her  feet,  and  she's  got 
sewing-meetings  on  the  brain  just  now.  I've  got  her 
to  bed  early  to-night — she's  frightfully  shaky — and  I 
thought  I'd  come  up  and  tell  you.  You're  the  only 


398  THESE  TWAIN 

one  that  can  do  anything  with  her  at  all,  and  you 
really  must  come  and  see  her  to-morrow  on  your  way 
to  the  works." 

Maggie  spoke  as  though  she  had  been  urging  Edwin 
for  months  to  take  the  urgent  matter  in  hand  and  was 
now  arrived  at  desperation. 

"All  right !  All  right !"  said  he,  with  amiable  impa- 
tience; it  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  the  matter. 
"I'll  drop  in.  But  I've  got  no  influence  over  her,"  he 
added,  with  sincerity. 

"Oh  yes,  you  have !"  said  Maggie,  mildly  now.  "I'm 
very  sorry  to  hear  about  George's  eyes.  Seeing  it's 
absolutely  necessary  for  Hilda  to  take  him  to  London 
to-morrow,  and  you've  got  no  servants  at  all,  can't  you 
come  and  sleep  at  Auntie's  for  a  night  or  two?  You've 
no  idea  what  a  relief  it  would  be  to  me." 

In  an  instant  Edwin  saw  that  he  was  beaten,  that 
Hilda  and  Maggie,  in  the  intervals  of  their  giggling, 
had  combined  to  overthrow  him.  The  tone  in  which 
Maggie  uttered  the  words  'George's  eyes,'  'absolutely 
necessary'  and  'such  a  relief  precluded  argument. 
His  wife  would  have  her  capricious  unnecessary  way, 
and  he  would  be  turned  out  of  his  own  house. 

"I  think  you  might,  dear,"  said  Hilda,  with  the  an- 
gelic persuasiveness  of  a  loving  and  submissive  wife. 
Nobody  could  have  guessed  from  that  marvellous 
tone  that  she  had  been  determined  to  defeat  him  and 
was  then,  so  to  speak,  standing  over  his  prostrate 
form. 

Maggie,  having  said  what  was  necessary  to  be  said, 
fell  back  into  the  constraint  from  which  no  efforts  of 
her  companions  could  extricate  her.  Such  was  the  ef- 
fect upon  her  of  the  presence  of  Tertius  Ingpen,  a 
stranger.  Presently  Ingpen  was  scanning  time-tables 
for  Hilda,  and  George  was  finding  notepaper  for  her, 


GEORGE'S  EYES  399 

and  Maggie  was  running  up  and  down  stairs  for  her. 
She  was  off  to  London.  "In  that  woman's  head," 
thought  Edwin,  as,  observing  his  wife,  he  tried  in  vain 
to  penetrate  the  secrets  behind  her  demeanour,  "there's 
only  room  for  one  idea  at  a  time." 

vn 

Edwin  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  end 
of  an  evening  which  he  declined  to  call  an  evening  at 
all.  His  eyes  regarded  a  book  on  his  knee,  but  he  was 
not  reading  it.  His  mind  was  engaged  upon  the  enigma 
of  his  existence.  He  had  entered  his  house  without  the 
least  apprehension,  and  brusquely,  in  a  few  hours, 
everything  seemed  to  be  changed  for  him.  Impulse 
had  conquered  commonsense;  his  ejectment  was  a  set- 
tled thing;  and  he  was  condemned  to  the  hated  abode 
of  Auntie  Hamps.  Events  seemed  enormous;  they 
desolated  him;  his  mouth  was  full  of  ashes.  The  re- 
sponsibilities connected  with  George  were  increasing; 
his  wife,  incalculable  and  unforeseeable,  was  getting 
out  of  hand;  and  the  menace  of  a  future  removal  to 
another  home  in  the  country  was  raised  again. 

He  looked  about  the  room;  and  he  imagined  all  the 
house,  every  object  in  which  was  familiar  and  beloved, 
and  he  simply  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the  disinte- 
gration of  these  interiors  by  furniture-removers,  and 
of  the  endless  rasping  business  of  creating  a  new  home 
in  partnership  with  a  woman  whose  ideas  about  furn- 
ishing were  as  unsound  as  they  were  capricious.  He  ut- 
terly dismissed  the  fanciful  scheme,  as  he  dismissed  the 
urgings  towards  public  activity.  He  deeply  resented  all 
these  headstrong  intentions  to  disturb  him  in  his  tran- 
quillity. They  were  indefensible,  and  he  would  not 
have  them.  He  would  die  in  sullen  obstinacy  rather 


400  THESE  TWAIN 

than  yield.     Impulse  might  conquer  commonsense,  but 
not  beyond  a  certain  degree.     He  would  never  yield. 

Ingpen  had  departed,  to  sleep  in  a  room  in  the  same 
building  as  his  office  at  Hanbridge.  He  knew  that  Ing- 
pen  had  no  comprehension  of  domestic  comfort  and  a 
well-disposed  day.  Nevertheless  he  envied  the  man  his 
celestial  freedom.  If  he,  Edwin,  were  free,  what  an 
ideal  life  he  could  make  for  himself,  a  life  presided 
over  by  commonsense,  regularity,  and  order!  He  was 
not  free;  he  would  never  be  free;  and  what  had  he 
obtained  in  exchange  for  freedom?  .  .  .  Ingpen's 
immense  criticism  smote  him.  He  had  a  wife  and  her 
child;  servants — at  intervals;  a  fine  works  and  many 
workpeople ;  a  house,  with  books ;  money,  security.  The 
organised  machinery  of  his  existence  was  tremendous; 
and  it  was  all  due  to  him,  made  by  him  in  his  own  in- 
terests and  to  satisfy  his  own  desires.  Without  him 
the  entire  structure  would  crumble  in  a  week;  without 
him  it  would  have  no  excuse.  And  what  was  the  result  ? 
Was  he  ever,  in  any  ideal  sense,  happy:  that  is,  free 
from  foreboding,  from  friction,  from  responsibility, 
and  withal  lightly  joyous?  Was  any  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  his  day  absolutely  what  he  would  have  wished? 
He  ranged  over  his  day,  and  concluded  that  the  best 
part  of  it  was  the  very  last.  .  .  .  He  got  into  bed,  the 
candles  in  the  sconce  were  lit,  the  gas  diminished  to  a 
blue  speck,  and  most  of  the  room  in  darkness ;  he  lay 
down  on  his  left  side,  took  the  marker  from  the  volume 
in  his  hand,  and  began  to  read;  the  house  was  silent 
and  enclosed;  the  rumbling  tramcar — to  whose  sound 
he  had  been  accustomed  from  infancy — did  not  a  bit 
disturb  him;  it  was  in  another  world;  over  the  edge  of 
his  book  he  couIH  see  the  form  of  his  wife,  fast  asleep 
in  the  other  bed,  her  plaited  hair  trailing  over  the  pil- 
low ;  the  feel  of  the  sheets  to  his  limbs  was  exquisite ;  he 


GEORGE'S  EYES  401 

read,  the  book  was  good;  the  chill  of  winter  just  pleas- 
antly affected  the  hand  that  held  the  book ;  nothing  an- 
noyed; nothing  jarred;  sleep  approached.  .  .  .  That 
fifteen  minutes,  that  twenty  or  thirty  minutes,  was  all 
that  he  could  show  as  the  result  of  the  tremendous  or- 
ganised machinery  of  his  existence — his  house,  his 
works,  his  workpeople,  his  servants,  his  wife  with  her 
child.  .  .  . 

Hilda  came  with  quick  determination  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. They  had  not  spoken  to  each  other  alone 
since  the  decision  and  his  defeat.  He  was  aware  of  his 
heart  beating  resentfully. 

"I'm  going  to  bed  now,  dear,"  she  said  in  an  or- 
dinary tone.  "I've  got  a  frightful  headache,  and  I 
must  sleep.  Be  sure  and  wake  me  up  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  will  you?  I  shall  have  such  lots  to  do." 

He  thought: 

"Has  she  a  frightful  headache?" 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  him  several  times,  very 
fervently ;  her  lips  lingered  on  his.  And  all  the  time 
she  frowned  ever  so  little ;  and  it  was  as  if  she  was  con- 
veying to  him:  "But — each  for  himself  in  marriage, 
after  all." 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  felt  just  a  little  relieved;  and 
he  could  not  understand  why.  He  watched  her  as  she 
left  the  room.  How  had  it  come  about  that  the  still 
finally  mysterious  creature  was  living  in  his  house,  im- 
posing her  individuality  upon  him,  spoiling  his  exist- 
ence? He  considered  that  it  was  all  disconcertingly 
strange. 

He  rose,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  opened  the  window ;  and 
the  frosty  air,  entering,  braced  him  and  summoned  his 
self-reliance.  The  night  was  wondrous.  And  when  he 
had  shut  the  window  and  turned  again  within,  the  room, 
beautiful,  withdrawn,  peaceful,  was  wondrous  too.  He 


402  THESE  TWAIN 

reflected  that  soon  he  would  be  in  bed,  calmly  reading, 
with  his  wife  unconscious  as  an  infant  in  the  other  bed. 
And  then  his  grievance  against  Hilda  slowly  surged  up 
and  he  began  for  the  first  time  to  realise  how  vast  it 
was. 

"Confound    that    woman!"    he    muttered,    meaning 
Auntie  Hamps. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AUNTIE    HAMPS   SENTENCED 


ON  the  next  evening  it  was  Maggie  who  opened  Mrs. 
Hamps's  front-door  for  Edwin.  There  was  no  light  in 
the  lobby,  but  a  faint  gleam  coming  through  the  open 
door  of  the  sitting-room  disclosed  the  silhouette  of 
Maggie's  broad  figure. 

"I  thought  you'd  call  in  this  morning,"  said  Maggie 
discontentedly.  "I  asked  you  to.  I've  been  expecting 
you  all  day." 

"Didn't  you  get  my  message?" 

"No.     What  message?" 

"D'you  mean  to  say  a  lad  hasn't  been  here  with  my 
portmanteau?"  demanded  Edwin,  alarmed  and  ready 
to  be  annoyed. 

"Yes.  A  lad's  been  with  your  portmanteau.  But  he 
gave  no  message." 

"D — n  him.  I  told  him  to  tell  you  I  couldn't  possibly 
get  here  before  night." 

"Well,  he  didn't !"  said  Maggie  stoutly,  throwing  back 
the  blame  upon  Edwin  and  his  hirelings.  "I  particu- 
larly wanted  you  to  come  early.  I  told  Auntie  you'd 
be  coming." 

"How's  she  getting  on?"  Edwin  asked  with  laconic 
gruffness,  dismissing  Maggie's  grievance  without  an 
apology.  He  might  have  to  stand  nonsense  from 
Hilda;  but  he  would  not  stand  it  from  Maggie,  of 
whose  notorious  mildness  he  at  once  began  to  take  ad- 

403 


404  THESE  TWAIN 

vantage,  as  in  the  old  days  of  their  housekeeping  to- 
gether. Moreover,  his  entrance  into  this  abode  was  a 
favour,  exhibiting  the  condescension  of  the  only  human 
being  who  could  exercise  influence  upon  Auntie  Hamps. 

"She's  worse,"  said  Maggie,  briefly  and  significantly. 

"In  bed?"  said  Edwin,  less  casually,  marking  her 
tone. 

Maggie  nodded. 

"Had  the  doctor?" 

"I  should  think  so  indeed!" 

"Hm!  Why  don't  you  have  a  light  in  this  lobby?" 
he  enquired  suddenly,  on  a  drily  humorous  note,  as 
he  groped  to  suspend  his  overcoat  upon  an  unstable 
hatstand.  It  seemed  to  be  a  very  cold  lobby,  after 
his  own  radiator-heated  half. 

"She  never  will  have  a  light  here,  unless  she's  doing 
the  grand  for  someone.  Are  you  going  to  wash  ye?" 

"No.  I  cleaned  up  at  the  works."  A  presentiment 
of  the  damp  chilliness  of  the  Hamps  bedroom  had 
suggested  this  precaution. 

Maggie  preceded  him  into  the  sitting-room,  where 
a  hexagonal  occasional-table  was  laid  for  tea. 

"Hello!  Do  you  eat  here?  What's  the  matter  with 
the  dining-room?" 

"The  chimney  always  smokes  when  the  wind's  in  the 
south-west." 

"Well,  why  doesn't  she  have  a  cowl  put  on  it?" 

"You'd  better  ask  her.  .  .  .  Also  she  likes  to  save 
a  fire.  She  can't  bear  to  have  two  fires  going  as  well 
as  the  kitchen-range.  I'll  bring  tea  in.  It's  all  ready." 

Maggie  went  away. 

Edwin  looked  round  the  shabby  Victorian  room.  A 
length  of  featureless  linoleum  led  from  the  door  to  the 
table.  This  carpet-protecting  linoleum  exasperated 
him.  It  expressed  the  very  spirit  of  his  aunt's  house. 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  405 

He  glanced  at  the  pictures,  the  texts,  the  beady  and  the 
woolly  embroideries,  the  harsh  chairs,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent morocco  exteriors  of  the  photograph-albums  in 
which  Auntie  Hamps  kept  the  shiny  portraits  of  all 
her  relatives,  from  grand-nieces  back  to  the  third  and 
fourth  generation  of  ancestors.  And  a  feeling  of  des- 
olation came  over  him.  He  thought :  "How  many  days 
shall  I  have  to  spend  in  this  deadly  hole?"  It  was  ex- 
tremely seldom  that  he  visited  King  Street,  and  when 
he  did  come  the  house  was  brightened  to  receive  him. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  what  the  house  really  was. 
And,  suddenly  thrown  back  into  it  at  its  most  lugu- 
brious and  ignoble,  after  years  of  the  amenities  of 
Trafalgar  Road,  he  was  somehow  surprised  that  that 
sort  of  thing  had  continued  to  exist,  and  he  resented 
that  it  should  have  dared  to  continue  to  exist.  He  had 
a  notion  that,  since  he  had  left  it  behind,  it  ought  to 
have  perished. 

He  cautiously  lifted  the  table  and  carried  it  to  the 
hearthrug.  Then  he  sat  down  in  the  easy-chair,  whose 
special  property,  as  he  remembered,  was  slowly  and 
inevitably  to  slide  the  sitter  forward  to  the  hard 
edge  of  the  seat;  and  he  put  his  feet  inside  the  fender. 
In  the  grate  a  small  fire  burned  between  two  fire- 
bricks. He  sneezed.  Maggie  came  in  with  a  tray. 

"Are  you  cold?"  she  asked,  seeing  the  new  situation 
of  the  table. 

"Am  I  cold!"  Edwin  repeated. 

"Well,"  said  Maggie,  "I  always  think  your  room* 
are  so  hot." 

Edwin  seized  the  small  serviceable  tongs  which  saved 
the  wear  of  the  large  tongs  matching  the  poker  and 
the  shovel,  and  he  dragged  both  firebricks  out  of  the 
grate. 

"No  coal  here,  I  suppose !"  he  exclaimed  gloomily, 


406  THESE  TWAIN 

opening  the  black  japanned  coal-scuttle.  "Oh!  Corn 
In  Egypt!"  The  scuttle  was  full  of  coal.  He  threw 
on  to  the  fire  several  profuse  shovelfuls  of  best  house- 
hold nuts  which  had  cost  sixteen  shillings  a  ton  even 
in  that  district  of  cheap  coal. 

"Well,"  Baggie  murmured,  aghast.  "It's  a  good 
thing  it's  you.  If  it  had  been  anybody  else — " 

"What  on  earth  does  she  do  with  her  money?"  he 
muttered. 

Shrugging  her  shoulders,  Maggie  went  out  again 
with  an  empty  tray. 

"No  servant,  either?"  Edwin  asked,  when  she  re- 
turned. 

"She's  sitting  with  Auntie." 

"Must  I  go  up  before  I  have  my  tea?" 

"No.     She  won't  have  heard  you  come." 

There  was  a  grilled  mutton-chop  and  a  boiled  egg 
on  the  crowded  small  table,  with  tea,  bread-and-butter, 
two  rounds  of  dry  bread,  some  cakes,  and  jam. 

"Which  are  you  having — egg  or  chop?"  Edwin  de- 
manded as  Maggie  sat  down. 

"Oh !    They're  both  for  you." 

"And  what  about  you?" 

"I  only  have  bread-and-butter  as  a  rule." 

Edwin  grunted,  and  started  to  eat. 

"What's  supposed  to  be  the  matter  with  her?"  he 
enquired. 

"It  seems  it's  congestion  of  the  lung,  and  thickened 
arteries.  It  wouldn't  matter  so  much  about  the  lung 
being  congested,  in  itself,  only  it's  the  strain  on  her 
heart." 

"I   see." 

"Been  in  bed  all  day,  I  suppose." 

"No,  she  would  get  up.  But  she  had  to  go  back  to 
bed  at  once.  She  had  a  collapse." 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  407 

"Hm!" 

He  could  not  think  of  anything  else  to  say. 

"Haven't  got  to-night's  Signal,  have  you?" 

"Oh  no !"  said  Maggie,  astonished  at  such  a  strange 
demand.  "Hilda  get  off  all  right?" 

"Yes,  they  went  by  the  nine  train." 

"She  told  me  that  she  should,  if  she  could  manage 
it.  I  expect  Mrs.  Tarns  was  up  there  early." 

Edwin  nodded,  recalling  with  bitterness  certain  mo- 
ments of  the  early  morning.  And  then  silence  ensued. 
The  brother  and  sister  could  not  keep  the  conversation 
alive,  Edwin  thought:  "We  know  each  other  inti- 
mately, and  we  respect  each  other,  and  yet  we  cannot 
even  conduct  a  meal  together  without  awkwardness  and 
constraint.  Has  civilisation  down  here  got  no  further 
than  that?"  He  felt  sorry  for  Maggie,  and  also  kindly 
disdainful  of  her.  He  glanced  at  her  furtively  and 
tried  to  see  in  her  the  girl  of  the  far  past.  She  had 
grown  immensely  older  than  himself.  She  was  now  at 
home  in  the  dreadful  Hamps  environment.  True,  she 
had  an  income,  but  had  she  any  pleasures?  It  was  im- 
possible to  divine  what  her  pleasures  might  be,  what  she 
thought  about  when  she  lay  in  bed,  to  what  hours  she 
looked  forward.  First  his  father,  then  himself,  and 
lastly  Auntie  Hamps  had  subjugated  her.  And  of  the 
three  Auntie  Hamps  had  most  ruthlessly  succeeded, 
and  in  the  shortest  time.  And  yet — Edwin  felt — even 
Auntie  Hamps  had  not  quite  succeeded,  and  the  orig- 
inal individual  still  survived  in  Maggie  and  was  silently 
critical  of  all  the  phenomena  which  surrounded  her 
and  to  which  she  had  apparently  submitted.  Realising 
this,  Edwin  ceased  to  be  kindly  disdainful. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal  a  heavy  foot  was  heard 
on  the  stairs. 

"Minnie !"  Maggie  called. 


408  THESE  TWAIN 

After  shuffling  and  hesitation  the  sitting-room  door 
was  pushed  ever  so  little  open. 

''Yes,  miss,"  said  someone  feebly. 

"Why  have  you  left  Mrs.  Hamps?  Do  you  need 
anything?" 

"Missis  made  me  go,  miss,"  came  the  reply,  very 
loosely  articulated. 

"Come  in  and  take  your  bread,"  said  Maggie,  and 
aside  to  Edwin :  "Auntie's  at  it  again !" 

After  another  hesitation  the  door  opened  wide,  and 
Minnie  became  visible.  She  was  rather  a  big  girl,  quite 
young,  fat,  too  fair,  undecided,  obviously  always  be- 
tween two  minds.  Her  large  apron,  badly-fitting  over 
the  blue  frock,  was  of  a  dubious  yellow  colour.  She 
wore  spectacles.  Behind  her  spectacles  she  seemed  tot 
be  blinking  in  confusion  at  all  the  subtle  complexities  of 
existence.  She  advanced  irregularly  to  the  table  with 
a  sort  of  nervous  desperation,  as  if  saying:  "I  have 
to  go  through  this  ordeal."  Edwin  could  not  judge 
whether  she  was  about  to  smile  or  about  to  weep. 

"Here's  your  bread,"  said  Maggie,  indicating  the  two 
rounds  of  dry  bread.  "I've  left  the  dripping  on  the 
kitchen  table  for  you." 

Edwin,  revolted,  perceived  of  course  in  a  flash  what 
the  life  of  Minnie  was  under  the  regime  of  Auntie 
Hamps. 

"Thank  ye,  miss." 

He  noticed  that  the  veiled  voice  was  that  of  a  rather 
deaf  person. 

Blushing,  Minnie  took  the  bread,  and  moved  away. 
Just  as  she  reached  the  door,  she  gave  a  great  sob,  fol- 
lowed by  a  number  of  little  ones;  and  the  bread  fell 
on  to  the%  carpet.  She  left  it  there,  and  vanished,  still 
violently  sobbing. 

Edwin,  spellbound,  stopped  masticating.     A  momen- 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  409 

tary  sensation  almost  of  horror  seized  him.  Maggie 
turned  pale,  and  he  was  glad  that  she  turned  pale.  If 
she  had  shown  by  no  sign  that  such  happenings  were 
unusual,  he  would  have  been  afraid  of  the  very  house 
itself,  of  its  mere  sinister  walls  which  seemed  to  shelter 
sick  tyrants,  miserable  victims,  and  enchanted  captives ; 
he  would  have  begun  to  wonder  whether  he  himself 
was  safe  in  it. 

"What  next?"  muttered  Maggie,  intimidated  but 
plucky,  rising  and  following  Minnie.  "Just  go  up  to 
Auntie,  will  you?"  she  called  to  Edwin  over  her  shoul- 
der. "She  oughtn't  really  to  be  left  alone  for  a  min- 
ute." 


Edwin  pushed  open  the  door  and  crept  with  precau- 
tions into  the  bedroom.  Mrs.  Hamps  was  dozing.  In 
the  half-light  of  the  lowered  gas  he  looked  at  her  and 
was  alarmed,  shocked,  for  it  was  at  once  apparent  that 
she  must  be  very  ill.  She  lay  reclining  against  sev- 
eral crumpled  and  crushed  pillows,  with  her  head  on 
one  side  and  her  veined  hands  limp  on  the  eiderdown, 
between  the  heavy  brown  side-curtains  that  hung  from 
the  carved  mahogany  tester.  The  posture  seemed  to 
be  that  of  an  exhausted  animal,  surprised  by  the  un- 
consciousness of  final  fatigue,  shameless  in  the  intense 
reed  of  repose.  Auntie  Hamps  had  ceased  to  be  a 
Wesleyan,  a  pillar  of  society,  a  champion  of  the  con- 
ventions, and  a  keeper-up  of  appearances ;  she  was  just 
an  utterly  wearied  and  beaten  creature,  breathing 
noisily  through  wide-open  mouth.  Edwin  could  not 
remember  ever  having  seen  her  when  she  was  not  to 
some  extent  arrayed  for  the  world's  gaze;  he  had  not 
seen  her  at  the  crisis  of  any  of  her  recent  attacks.  He 
knew  that  more  than  once  she  had  recovered  when 


410  THESE  TWAIN 

good  judges  had  pronounced  recovery  impossible;  but 
he  was  quite  sure,  now,  that  she  would  never  rise  from 
that  bed.  He  had  the  sudden  dreadful  thought :  "She 
is  done  for,  sentenced,  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  us. 
This  is  the  end  for  her.  She  won't  be  able  to  pretend 
any  more.  All  her  efforts  have  come  to  this."  The 
thought  affected  him  like  a  blow.  And  two  somewhat 
contradictory  ideas  sprang  from  it:  first,  the  entire 
absurdity  of  her  career  as  revealed  by  its  close,  and 
secondly,  the  tragic  dignity  with  which  its  close  was 
endowing  her. 

At  once  contemptible  and  august,  she  was  dimin- 
ished, even  in  size.  Her  scanty  grey  hair  was  tousled. 
Her  pink  flannel  night-dress  with  its  long,  loose  sleeves 
was  grotesque;  the  multitude  of  her  patched  outer 
wrappings,  from  which  peeped  her  head  on  its  withered 
neck,  and  safety-pins,  and  the  orifice  of  a  hot-water 
bag,  were  equally  grotesque.  None  of  the  bed-linen  was 
clean,  or  of  good  quality.  The  eiderdown  was  old,  and 
the  needle-points  of  its  small  white  feathers  were  pierc- 
ing it.  The  table  at  the  bed-head  had  a  strange  col- 
lection of  poor,  odd  crockery.  The  whole  room,  with 
its  distempered  walls  of  an  uncomfortable  green  colour, 
in  spite  of  several  respectable  pieces  of  mahogany  furn- 
iture, seemed  to  be  the  secret  retreat  of  a  graceless  and 
mean  indigence.  And  above  all  it  was  damply  cold; 
the  window  stood  a  little  open,  and  only  the  tiniest 
fire  burnt  in  the  inefficient  grate. 

For  decades  Auntie  Hamps,  with  her  erect  figure 
and  handsome  face,  her  black  silks,  jet  ornaments,  and 
sealskins,  her  small  regular  subscriptions  and  her  spas- 
modic splendours  of  golden  generosity,  her  heroic  re- 
lentless hypocrisies  and  her  absolute  self-reliance  and 
independence,  had  exhibited  a  glorious  front  to  the 
world.  With  her,  person  and  individuality  were  almost 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  411 

everything,  and  the  environment  she  had  made  for  her- 
self almost  nothing.  The  ground-floor  of  her  house 
was  presentable,  especially  when  titivated  for  occa- 
sional hospitalities,  but  not  more  than  presentable.  The 
upper  floor  was  never  shown.  In  particular,  Auntie 
Hamps  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  invite  other 
women  to  their  bedrooms.  Her  bedroom  was  guarded 
like  a  fastness.  In  it,  unbeheld,  lived  the  other  Auntie 
Hamps,  complementary  to  the  grand  and  massive  Mrs. 
Hamps  known  to  mankind.  And  now  the  fastness  was 
exposed,  defenceless,  and  its  squalid  avaricious  secrets 
discovered;  and  she  was  too  broken  to  protest.  There 
was  something  unbearably  pitiful  in  that.  Her  pose 
was  pitiful  and  her  face  was  pitiful.  Those  features 
were  still  far  from  ugly;  the  contours  of  the  flushed 
cheeks,  the  chin,  and  the  convex  eyelids  were  astonish- 
ingly soft,  and  recalled  the  young  girl  of  about  half  a 
century  earlier.  She  was  both  old  and  young  in  her 
troubled  unconsciousness.  The  reflection  was  inevitable : 
"She  was  a  young  girl — and  now  she  is  sentenced." 
Edwin  felt  himself  desolated  by  a  terrible  gloom  which 
questioned  the  justification  of  all  life.  The  cold  of  the 
room  made  him  shiver.  After  gazing  for  a  long  time 
at  the  sufferer,  he  tiptoed  to  the  fire.  On  the  painted 
iron  mantelpiece  were  a  basalt  clock  and  three  photo- 
graphs;  a  recent  photograph  of  smirking  Clara  sur- 
rounded by  her  brood ;  a  faded  photograph  of  Maggie 
as  a  young  girl,  intolerably  dowdy;  and  an  equally 
faded  photograph  of  himself  as  a  young  man  of  twenty, 
— he  remembered  the  suit  and  the  necktie  in  which  he 
had  been  photographed.  The  simplicity,  the  ingenu- 
ousness, of  his  own  boyish  face  moved  him  deeply  and 
at  the  same  time  disgusted  him.  "Was  I  like  that?" 
he  thought,  astounded,  and  he  felt  intensely  sorry 
for  the  raw  youth.  Above  the  clock  was  suspended  by 


THESE  TWAIN 

• 

a  ribbon  a  new  green  card,  lettered  in  silver  with  some 
verses  entitled  "Lean  Hard."  This  card,  he  knew, 
had  superseded  a  booklet  of  similar  tenor  that  used 
to  lie  on  the  dressing-table  when  he  was  an  infant. 
The  verses  began: 

Child  of  My  love,  "Lean  hard", 

And  let  Me  feel  the  pressure  of  thy  care. 

And  they  ended: 

Thou  lovest  Me.    I  knew  it.    Doubt  not  then, 
But  loving  Me,  LEAN  HARD. 

All  his  life  he  had  laughed  at  the  notion  of  his 
Auntie  leaning  hard  upon  anything  whatever.  Yet 
she  had  lived  continually  with  these  verses  ever  since 
the  year  of  their  first  publication;  she  had  never 
tired  of  their  message.  And  now  Edwin  was  touched. 
He  seemed  to  see  some  sincerity,  some  beauty,  in  them. 
He  had  a  vision  of  their  author,  unknown  to  literature, 
but  honoured  in  a  hundred  thousand  respectable  homes. 
He  thought:  "Did  Auntie  only  pretend  to  believe  in 
them?  Or  did  she  think  she  did  believe  in  them?  Or 
did  she  really  believe  in  them?"  The  last  seemed  a 
possibility.  Supposing  she  did  really  believe  in  them? 
.  .  .  Yes,  he  was  touched.  He  was  ready  to  admit 
that  spirituality  was  denied  to  none.  He  seemed  to 
come  into  contact  with  the  universal  immanent  spirit- 
uality. 

Then  he  stooped  to  put  some  bits  of  coal  silently 
on  the  fire. 

"Who's  that  putting  coal  on  the  fire?"  said  a  faint 
but  sharply  protesting  voice  from  the  bed. 

The  weakness  of  the  voice  gave  Edwin  a  fresh  shock. 
The  voice  seemed  to  be  drawing  on  the  very  last  reserves 
of  its  owner's  vitality.  Owing  to  the  height  of  the 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  413 

foot  of  the  bed,  Auntie  Hamps  could  not  see  anything 
at  the  fireplace  lower  than  the  mantelpiece.  As  she 
withdrew  from  earth  she  employed  her  fading  faculties 
to  expostulate  against  a  waste  of  coal  and  to  identify 
the  unseen  criminal. 

"I  am,"  said  Edwin  cheerfully.    "It  was  nearly  out." 

He  stood  up,  smiling  slightly,  and  faced  her. 

Auntie  Hamps,  lifting  her  head  and  frowning  in  sur- 
prise, gazed  at  him  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  trying 
to  decide  who  he  was.  Then  she  said,  in  the  same 
enfeebled  tone  as  before: 

"Eh,  Edwin!  I  never  heard  you  come  in.  This  is 
an  honour!"  And  her  head  dropped  back. 

"I'm  sleeping  here,"  said  Edwin,  with  determined 
cheerfulness.  "Did  ye  know?" 

She  reflected,  and  answered  deliberately,  using  her 
volition  to  articulate  every  syllable: 

"Yes.     Ye're  having  Maggie's  room." 

"Oh  no,  Auntie !" 

"Yes,  you  are.  I've  told  her."  The  faint  voice  be- 
came harshly  obstinate.  "Turn  the  gas  up  a  bit,  Ed- 
win, so  that  I  can  see  you.  Well,  this  is  an  honour. 
Did  Maggie  give  ye  a  proper  tea?" 

"Oh  yes,  thanks.     Splendid." 

He  raised  the  gas.     Auntie  Hamps   blinked. 

"You  want  something  to  shade  this  gas,"  said  Edwin. 
"I'll  fix  ye  something." 

The  gas-bracket  was  a  little  to  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place, over  the  dressing-table,  and  nearly  opposite  the 
bed.  Auntie  Hamps  nodded.  Having  glanced  about, 
Edwin  put  a  bonnet-box  on  the  dressing-table  and  on 
that,  upright  and  open,  the  Hamps  family  Bible  from 
the  ottoman.  The  infirm  creation  was  just  lofty 
enough  to  come  between  the  light  and  the  old  woman's 
eyes. 


414  THESE  TWAIN 

"That'll  be  better,"  said  he.  "You're  not  at  all 
well,  I  hear,  Auntie."  He  endeavoured  to  be  tactful. 

She  slowly  shook  her  head  as  it  lay  on  the  pillow. 

"This  is  one  of  my  bad  days.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  pick 
up.  .  .  .  Then  has  Hilda  taken  George  to  London?" 

Edwin  nodded. 

"Eh,  I  do  hope  and  pray  it'll  be  all  right.  I've  had 
such  good  eyesight  myself,  I'm  all  the  more  afraid  for 
others.  What  a  blessing  it's  been  to  me !  .  .  .  Eh, 
what  a  good  mother  dear  Hilda  is !"  She  added  after 
a  pause:  "I  daresay  there  never  was  such  a  mother 
as  Hilda,  unless  it's  Clara." 

"Has  Clara  been  in  to-day?"  Edwin  demanded,  to 
change  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"No,  she  hasn't.  But  she  will,  as  soon  as  she  has  a 
moment.  She'll  be  popping  in.  They're  such  a  tie  on 
her,  those  children  are — and  how  she  looks  after  them ! 
.  .  .  Edwin!"  She  called  him,  as  though  he  were  re- 
ceding. 

"Yes?" 

The  frail  voice  continued,  articulating  with  great 
carefulness,  and  achieving  each  sentence  as  though  it 
were  a  miracle,  as  indeed  it  was : 

"I  think  no  one  ever  had  such  nephews  and  nieces 
as  I  have.  I've  never  had  children  of  my  own — that 
was  not  to  be! — but  I  must  say  the  Lord  has  made  it 
up  to  me  in  my  nephews  and  nieces.  You  and  Hilda 
.  .  .  and  Clara  and  Albert  .  .  .  and  the  little 
chicks !"  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"You're  forgetting  Maggie,"  said  Edwin,  lightly. 

"Yes,"  Auntie  Hamps  agreed,  but  in  a  quite  different 
tone,  reluctant  and  critical.  "I'm  sure  Maggie  does 
her  best.  Oh!  I'm  sure  she  .does  .  .  .  Edwin!" 
Again  she  called  him. 

He  approached  the  tumbled  bed,  and  even   sat  on 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  415 

the  edge  of  it,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Auntie  Hamps, 
though  breathing  now  more  rapidly  and  with  more  dif- 
ficulty, seemed  to  have  revitalised  herself  at  some  mys- 
terious source  of  energy.  She  was  still  preoccupied 
by  the  mental  concentration  and  the  effort  of  volition 
required  for  the  smallest  physical  acts  incident  to  her 
continued  existence ;  but  she  had  accumulated  power  for 
the  furtherance  of  greater  ends. 

"D'ye  want  anything?"  Edwin  suggested,  indicating 
the  contents  of  the  night-table. 

She  moved  her  head  to  signify  a  negative.  Her  pink- 
clad  arms  did  not  stir.  And  her  whole  being  seemed 
to  be  suspended  while  she  prepared  for  an  exertion. 

"I'm  so  relieved  you've  come,"  she  said  at  length, 
slowly  and  painfully.  "You  can't  think  what  a  relief 
it  is  to  me.  I've  really  no  one  but  you.  .  .  .  It's 
about  that  girl." 

"What  girl?" 

"Minnie." 

"The  servant?" 

Mrs.  Hamps  inclined  her  head,  and  fetched  breath 
through  the  wide-open  mouth.  "I've  only  just  found 
it  out.  She's  in  trouble.  Oh!  She  admitted  it  to 
me  a  bit  ago.  I  sent  her  downstairs.  I  wouldn't  have 
her  in  my  bedroom  a  minute  longer.  She's  in  trouble. 
I  felt  sure  she  was.  .  .  .  She  was  at  class-meeting 
last  Wednesday.  And  only  yesterday  I  paid  her  her 
wages.  Only  yesterday!  Here  she  lives  on  the  fat  of 
the  land,  and  what  does  she  do  for  it?  I  assure  you 
I  have  to  see  to  everything  myself.  I'm  always  after 
her.  ...  In  a  month  she  won't  be  fit  to  be  seen  .  .  . 
Edwin,  I've  never  been  so  ashamed.  .  .  .  That  I 
should  have  to  tell  such  a  thing  to  my  own  nephew!" 
She  ceased,  exhausted. 

Edwin  was   somewhat  amused.     He   could  not  help 


416  THESE  TWAIN 

feeling  amused  at  such  an  accident  happening  in  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Hamps. 

"Who's  the  man?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  that's  another  thing!"  answered  Mrs. 
Hamps  solemnly,  in  her  extreme  weakness.  "It's  the 
barman  at  the  Vaults,  of  all  people.  She  wouldn't 
admit  it,  but  I  know." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"She  must  leave  my  house  at  once." 

"Where  does  she  live — I  mean  her  people?" 

"She  has  no  parents."  Auntie  Hamps  reflected  for 
a  few  moments.  "She  has  an  aunt  at  Axe." 

"Well,  she  can't  get  to  Axe  to-night,"  said  Edwin 
positively.  "Does  Maggie  know  about  it?" 

"Maggie!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamps  scornfully. 
"Maggie  never  notices  anything."  She  added  in  a 
graver  tone:  "And  there's  no  reason  why  Maggie 
should  know.  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  Maggie 
ought  to  know  about.  You  can  speak  to  the  girl 
herself.  It  will  come  much  better  from  you.  I  shall 
simply  tell  Maggie  I've  decided  the  girl  must  go." 

"She  can't  go  to-night,"  Edwin  repeated,  humour- 
ingly,  but  firmly. 

Auntie  Hamps  proved  the  sincerity  of  her  regard 
for  him  by  yielding. 

"Well,"  she  murmured,  "to-morrow  morning,  then. 
She  can  turn  out  the  sitting-room,  and  clean  the  silver 
in  the  black  box,  and  then  she  can  go — before  dinner. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  give  her  her  dinner.  Nor  her 
extra  day's  wages  either." 

"And  what  shall  you  do  for  a  servant?  Get  a 
charwoman  ?" 

"Charwoman?  No!  Maggie  will  manage."  And 
then  with  a  sudden  flare  of  relished  violence:  "I  al- 
ways knew  that  girl  was  a  mopsy  slut.  And  what's 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  417 

more,  if  you  ask  me,  she  brought  him  into  the  house — 
and  after  eleven  o'clock  at  night  too !" 

"All  right!"  Edwin  muttered,  to  soothe  the  patient. 

And  Mrs.  Hamps  sadly  smiled. 

"It's  such  a  relief  to  me,"  she  breathed.  "You  don't 
know  what  a  relief  to  me  it  is  to  put  it  in  your  hands." 

Her  eyelids  dropped.  She  said  no  more.  Having 
looked  back  for  an  instant  in  a  supreme  effort  on 
behalf  of  the  conventions  upon  which  society  was  es- 
tablished, Auntie  Hamps  turned  again  exhausted  to- 
wards the  lifting  veil  of  the  unknown.  And  Edwin 
began  to  realise  the  significance  of  the  scene  that  was 
ended. 

m 

"I  say,"  Edwin  began,  when  he  had  silently  closed  the 
door  of  the  sitting-room.  "Here's  a  lark,  if  you  like !" 
And  he  gave  a  short  laugh.  It  was  under  such  language 
and  such  demeanour  that  he  concealed  his  real  emo- 
tion, which  was  partly  solemn,  partly  pleasurable,  and 
wholly  buoyant. 

Maggie  looked  up  gloomily.  With  a  bit  of  pencil 
held  very  close  to  the  point  in  her  heavy  fingers,  she 
was  totting  up  the  figures  of  household  accounts  in  a 
penny  red-covered  cash-book. 

Edwin  went  on: 

"It  seems  the  girl  yon" — he  indicated  the  kitchen 
with  a  jerk  of  the  head — "  's  been  and  got  herself  into 
a  mess." 

Maggie  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hand. 

"Has  she  been  talking  to  you  about  it?"  With  a 
similar  jerk  of  the  head  Maggie  indicated  Mrs.  Hamps's 
bedroom. 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  she's  only  just  found  it  out?" 


418  THESE  TWAIN 

"Who?    Auntie?    Yes.    Did  you  know  about  it?" 

"Did  I  know  about  it?"  Maggie  repeated  with  mild 
disdainful  impatience.  "Of  course  I  knew  about  it. 
I've  known  for  weeks.  But  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  her." 
She  finished  bitterly. 

Edwin  regarded  his  sister  with  new  respect  and  not 
without  astonishment.  Never  before  in  their  lives  had 
they  discussed  any  inconvenient  sexual  phenomenon. 
Save  for  vague  and  very  careful  occasional  reference 
to  Clara's  motherhood,  Maggie  had  never  given  any 
evidence  to  her  brother  that  she  was  acquainted  with 
what  are  called  in  Anglo-Saxon  countries  "the  facts  of 
life,"  and  he  had  somehow  thought  of  her  as  not  hav- 
ing emerged,  at  the  age  of  forty-four  or  so,  from  the 
naive  ignorance  of  the  young  girl.  Now  her  per- 
fectly phlegmatic  attitude  in  front  of  the  Minnie  epi- 
sode seemed  to  betoken  a  familiarity  that  approached 
cynicism.  And  she  was  not  at  all  tongue-tied ;  she  was 
at  her  ease.  She  had  become  a  woman  of  the  world. 
Edwin  liked  her;  he  liked  her  manner  and  her  tone. 
His  interest  in  the  episode  even  increased. 

"She  was  for  turning  her  out  to-night,"  said  he. 
"I  stopped  that." 

"I  should  think  so  indeed !" 

"I've  got  her  as  far  as  to-morrow  morning." 

"The  girl  won't  go  to-morrow  morning  either !"  said 
Maggie.  "At  least,  if  she  goes,  I  go."  She  spoke  with 
tranquillity,  adding:  "But  we  needn't  bother  about 
that.  Auntie'll  be  past  worrying  about  Minnie  to- 
morrow morning.  .  .  .  I'd  better  go  up  to  her.  She 
can't  possibly  be  left  alone." 

Maggie  shut  the  account-book,  and  rose. 

"I  only  came  down  for  a  sec  to  tell  you.  She  was 
dozing,"  said  Edwin  apologetically.  "She's  awfully 
ill.  I'd  no  idea." 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED          419 

"Yes,  she's  ill  right  enough." 

"Who'll  sit  up  with  her?" 

"I  shall." 

"Did  you  sit  up  with  her  last  night?" 

"No— only  part  of  the  night." 

"We  ought  to  get  a  nurse." 

"Well,  we  can't  get  one  to-night." 

"And  what  about  Clara?  Can't  she  take  a  turn? 
Surely  in  a  case  like  this  she  can  chuck  her  eternal 
kids  for  a  bit." 

"I  expect  she  could.     But  she  doesn't  know." 

"Haven't  you  sent  round?"     He  expressed  surprise. 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Maggie  with  undisturbed  equa- 
nimity. "Who  could  I  send?  I  couldn't  spare  Minnie. 
The  thing  didn't  seem  at  all  serious  until  this  morning. 
Since  then  I've  had  my  hands  full." 

"Yes,  I  can  see  you  have,"  Edwin  agreed  apprecia- 
tively. 

"It  was  lucky  the  doctor  called  on  his  own.  He 
does  sometimes,  you  know,  since  she  began  to  have 
her  attacks." 

"Well,  I'll  go  round  to  Clara's  myself,"  said  Edwin. 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Maggie.    "At  least  not  to-night." 

"Why  not?"  He  might  have  put  the  question  angrily, 
overbearingly ;  but  Maggie  was  so  friendly,  suave,  con- 
fidential, persuasive,  and  so  sure  of  herself,  that  with 
pleasure  he  copied  her  accents.  He  enjoyed  thus  talk- 
ing to  her  intimately  in  the  ugly  dark  house,  with  the 
life-bearing  foolish  Minnie  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
dying  old  woman  on  the  other.  He  thought :  "There's 
something  splendid  about  Mag.  In  fact  I  always  knew 
there  was."  And  he  forgot  her  terrible  social  short- 
comings, her  utter  lack  of  the  feminine  seductiveness 
that  for  him  ought  to  be  in  every  woman,  and  her  in- 
vincible stolidity.  Her  sturdy  and  yet  scarcely  articu- 


420  THESE  TWAIN 

late  championship  of  Minnie  delighted  him  and  quick- 
ened his  pulse. 

"I'd  sooner  not  have  her  here  to-night,"  said  Maggie. 
"You  knew  they'd  had  a  tremendous  rumpus,  didn't 
you?" 

"Who?     Auntie  and  Clara?" 

"Yes." 

"I  didn't.  What  about?  When?  Nobody  ever  said 
anything  to  me." 

"Oh,  it  must  have  been  two  or  three  months  ago. 
Auntie  said  something  about  Albert  not  paying  me  my 
interest  on  my  money  he's  got.  And  then  Clara  flared 
up,  and  the  fat  was  in  the  fire." 

"D'you  mean  to  say  he's  not  paying  you  your  inter- 
est? Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Oh!  It  doesn't  matter.  I  didn't  want  to  bother 
you." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  bothered  me,"  said  Ed- 
win, with  a  trace  of  benevolent  severity.  He  was  as- 
tounded, and  somewhat  hurt,  that  this  great  family 
event  should  have  been  successfully  concealed  from 
him.  He  felt  furious  against  Albert  and  Clara,  and  at 
the  same  time  proud  that  his  prognostication  about 
the  investment  with  Albert  had  proved  correct. 

"Did  Hilda  know?" 

"Oh  yes.     Hilda  knew." 

"Well,  I'm  dashed!"  The  exclamation  showed 
naivete.  His  impression  of  the  chicanery  of  women  was 
deepened,  so  that  it  actually  disquieted  him.  "But  I 
suppose,"  he  went  on,  "I  suppose  this  row  isn't  going 
to  stop  Clara  from  coming  here,  seeing  the  state 
Auntie's  in?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  Clara  would  come  like  a  shot 
if  she  knew,  and  Albert  as  well.  She's  a  good  nurse 
— in  some  ways." 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED 

"Well,  if  they  aren't  told,  and  anything  happens  to 
Auntie  in  the  night,  there'll  be  a  fine  to-do  afterwards, 
—don't  forget  that." 

"Nothing'll  happen  to  Auntie  in  the  night,"  said 
Maggie,  with  tranquil  reassurance.  "And  I  don't  think 
I  could  stand  'em  to-night." 

The  hint  of  her  nervous  susceptibility,  beneath  that 
stolid  exterior,  appealed  to  him. 

Maggie,  since  closing  the  account-book,  had  moved 
foot  by  foot  anxiously  towards  the  door,  and  had  only 
been  kept  in  the  room  by  the  imperative  urgency  of 
the  conversation.  She  now  had  her  hand  on  the  door. 

"I  say !"  He  held  her  yet  another  moment.  "What's 
this  about  me  taking  your  room?  I  don't  want  to 
turn  you  out  of  your  room." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  smile.  "It's 
easiest,  really.  Moreover,  I  daresay  there  won't  be  such 
a  lot  of  sleeping.  ...  I  must  go  up  at  once.  She 
can't  possibly  be  left  alone." 

Maggie  opened  the  door  and  she  had  scarcely 
stepped  forth  when  Minnie  from  the  kitchen  rushed 
into  the  lobby  and  dropped,  intentionally  or  uninten- 
tionally, on  her  knees  before  her.  Edwin,  unobserved 
by  Minnie,  witnessed  the  scene  through  the  doorway. 
Minnie,  agitated  almost  to  the  point  of  hysteria,  was 
crying  violently  and  as  she  breathed  her  shoulders 
lifted  and  fell,  and  the  sound  of  her  sobbing  rose  period- 
ically to  a  shriek  and  sank  to  a  groan.  She  knelt  with 
her  body  and  thighs  upright  and  her  head  erect,  mak- 
ing no  attempt  to  stem  the  tears  or  to  hide  her  face. 
In  her  extreme  desolation  she  was  perhaps  as  uncon- 
scious of  herself  as  she  had  ever  been.  Her  cap  was 
awry  on  her  head,  and  her  hair  disarranged ;  the  blink- 
ing spectacles  made  her  ridiculous ;  only  the  blue  print 
uniform,  and  the  sinister  yellowish  apron  drawn  down 


THESE  TWAIN 

tight  under  her  knees,  gave  a  certain  respectable 
regularity  to  her  extraordinary  and  grotesque  appear- 
ance. 

To  Edwin  she  seemed  excessively  young  and  yet  far 
too  large  and  too  developed  for  her  age.  The  girl  was 
obviously  a  fool.  Edwin  could  perceive  in  her  no  charm 
whatever,  except  that  of  her  innocence ;  and  it  was  not 
easy  to  imagine  that  any  man,  even  the  barman  at  the 
Vaults,  could  have  mistaken  her,  even  momentarily, 
for  the  ideal.  And  then  some  glance  of  her  spectacled 
eyes,  or  some  gesture  of  the  great  red  hand,  showed  him 
his  own  blindness  and  mysteriously  made  him  realise 
the  immensity  of  the  illusion  and  the  disillusion  through 
which  she  had  passed  in  her  foolish  and  incontinent 
simplicity.  What  had  happened  to  her  was  miraculous, 
exquisite,  and  terrible.  He  felt  the  magic  of  her  illu- 
sion and  the  terror  of  her  disillusion.  Already  in  her 
girlishness  and  her  stupidity  she  had  lived  through  su- 
preme hours.  "Compared  to  her,"  he  thought,  "I  don't 
know  what  life  is.  No  man  does."  And  he  not  only 
suffered  for  her  sorrow,  he  gave  her  a  sacred  quality. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  heaven  itself  ought  to  endow 
her  with  beauty,  grace,  and  wisdom,  so  that  she  might 
meet  with  triumphant  dignity  the  ordeals  that  awaited 
her;  and  that  mankind  should  supplement  the  work  of 
heaven  by  clothing  her  richly  and  housing  her  in  se- 
cluded splendour,  and  offering  her  the  service  which 
only  victims  merit.  Surely  her  caprices  ought  to  be 
indulged  and  honoured !  .  .  .  Edwin  was  indignant ; 
indignation  positively  burnt  his  body.  She  was  help- 
less and  defenceless  and  she  had  been  exploited  by 
Auntie  Hamps.  And  after  having  been  exploited  she 
had  been  driven  out  by  ukase  on  week-night  to  class- 
meeting  and  on  Sunday  night  to  chapel,  to  find  Christ, 
with  the  result  that  she  had  found  the  barman  at 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED 

the  Vaults.  The  consequences  were  inevitable.  She 
was  definitely  ruined,  unless  the  child  should  bereave 
her  by  dying;  and  even  then  she  might  still  be  ruined. 
And  what  about  the  child,  if  the  child  lived?  And  al- 
though Edwin  had  never  seen  the  silly  girl  before,  he 
said  to  himself,  while  noticing  that  a  crumb  or  two  of 
the  bread  dropped  by  her  still  remained  on  the  floor: 
"I'll  see  that  girl  through  whatever  it  costs !"  He  was 
not  indignant  against  Auntie  Hamps.  How  could  he 
be  indignant  against  an  expiring  old  creature  already 
desperate  in  the  final  dilemma.  He  felt  nearly  as  sorry 
for  Auntie  Hamps  as  for  Minnie.  He  was  indignant 
against  destiny,  of  which  Auntie  Hamps  was  only  the 
miserable,  unimaginative  instrument. 

"I'd  better  go  to-night,  miss.  Let  me  go  to-night !" 
cried  Minnie.  And  she  cried  so  loudly  that  Edwin  was 
afraid  Auntie  Hamps  might  hear  and  might  make  an 
apparition  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  curse  Minnie 
with  fearful  Biblical  names.  And  the  old  woman  in  the 
curtained  bed  upstairs  was  almost  as  present  to  him 
as  the  girl  kneeling  before  his  eyes  on  the  linoleum 
of  the  lobby. 

"Minnie !  Minnie !  Don't  be  foolish !"  said  Maggie, 
standing  over  her  and  soothing  her,  not  with  her  hands 
but  with  her  voice. 

Maggie  had  shown  no  perturbation  or  even  surprise 
at  Minnie's  behaviour.  She  stood  looking  down  at  her 
benevolent,  deprecating,  and  calm.  And  by  contrast 
with  Minnie  she  seemed  to  be  quite  middle-aged.  Her 
tone  was  exactly  right.  It  reminded  Edwin  of  the 
tone  which  she  would  use  to  himself  when,  she  was  six- 
teen and  the  housekeeper,  and  he  was  twelve.  Maggie 
had  long  since  lost  authority  over  him;  she  had  lost 
everything;  she  would  die  without  having  lived;  she 
had  never  begun  to  live — (No,  perhaps  once  she  had 


424  THESE  TWAIN 

just  begun  to  live!) — Minnie  had  prime  knowledge  far 
exceeding  hers.  And  yet  she  had  power  over  Minnie 
and  could  exercise  it  with  skill. 

Minnie,  hesitating,  sobbed  more  slowly,  and  then 
ceased  to  sob. 

"Go  back  into  the  kitchen  and  have  something  to 
eat,  and  then  you  can  go  to  bed.  You'll  feel  differently 
in  the  morning,"  said  Maggie  with  the  same  gentle 
blandness. 

And  Minnie,  as  though  fascinated,  rose  from  her 
knees. 

Edwin,  surmising  what  had  passed  between  the  two 
in  the  kitchen  while  he  was  in  the  bedroom,  was  aware 
of  a  fresh,  intense  admiration  for  Maggie.  She  might 
be  dowdy,  narrow,  dull,  obstinate,  virgin, — but  she 
was  superb.  She  had  terrific  reserves.  He  was  proud 
of  her.  The  tone  merely  of  her  voice  as  she  spoke 
to  the  girl  seemed  to  prove  the  greatness  of  her  deeply- 
hidden  soul. 

Suddenly  Minnie  caught  sight  of  Edwin  through  the 
doorway,  flushed  red,  had  the  air  of  slavishly  apolo- 
gising to  the  unapproachable  male  for  having  disturbed 
him  by  her  insect-woes,  and  vanished.  Maggie  hur- 
ried upstairs  to  the  departing.  Edwin  was  alone  with 
the  chill  draught  from  the  lobby  into  the  room,  and 
with  the  wonder  of  life. 


IV 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Edwin  kept  watch  over 
Auntie  Hamps,  who  was  asleep.  He  sat  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  with  his  back  to  the  window  and  the  right  side  of 
his  face  to  the  glow  of  the  fire.  The  fire  was  as  effec- 
tive as  the  size  and  form  of  the  grate  would  allow; 
it  burnt  richly  red;  but  its  influence  did  not  seem  to 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED          425 

extend  beyond  a  radius  of  four  feet  outwards  from  its 
centre.  The  terrible  damp  chill  of  the  Five  Towns 
winter  hung  in  the  bedroom  like  an  invisible  miasma. 
He  could  feel  the  cold  from  the  window,  which  was 
nevertheless  shut,  through  the  shawl  with  which  he  had 
closed  the  interstices  of  the  back  of  the  chair,  and, 
though  he  had  another  thick  shawl  over  his  knees,  the 
whole  of  his  left  side  felt  the  creeping  attack  of  the 
insidious  miasma.  A  thermometer  which  he  had  found 
and  which  lay  on  the  night-table  five  yards  from  the 
fire  registered  only  fifty-two  degrees.  His  expelled 
breath  showed  in  the  air.  It  was  as  if  he  were  fighting 
with  all  resources  against  frigidity,  and  barely  holding 
his  own. 

In  the  half-light  of  the  gas,  still  screened  from  the 
bed  by  the  bonnet-box  and  the  Bible,  he  glanced  round 
amid  the  dark  ngjeadows  at  the  mean  and  sinister  ugli- 
ness of  the  historic  chamber,  the  secret  nest  and  with- 
drawing place  of  Auntie  Hamps ;  and  the  real  asceti- 
cism of  her  life  and  of  the  life  of  all  her  generation  al- 
most smote  him.  Half  a  century  earlier  such  a  room  had 
represented  comfort;  in  some  details,  as  for  instance 
in  its  bed,  it  represented  luxury ;  and  in  half  a  century 
Auntie  Hamps  had  learnt  nothing  from  the  material 
progress  of  civilisation  but  the  use  of  the  hot-water 
bag;  her  vanished  and  forgotten  parents  would  have 
looked  askance  at  the  enervating  luxuriousness  of  her 
hot-water  bag — unknown  even  to  the  crude  wistful  boy 
Edwin  on  the  mantelpiece.  And  Auntie  Hamps  herself 
was  wont  as  it  were  to  atone  for  it  by  using  the  still 
tepid  water  therefrom  for  her  morning  toilet  instead 
of  having  truly  hot  water  brought  up  from  the  kitchen. 
Edwin  thought:  "Are  we  happier  for  these  changes 
brought  about  by  the  mysterious  force  of  evolution?" 
And  answered  very  emphatically :  "Yes,  we  are."  He 


426  THESE  TWAIN 

would  not  for  anything  have  gone  back  to  the  austerities 
of  his  boyhood. 

He  rocked  gently  to  and  fro  in  the  chair,  excited 
by  events  and  by  the  novel  situation,  and  he  was  not 
dissatisfied  with  himself.  Indeed  he  was  aware  of  a 
certain  calm  complacency,  for  his  commonsense  had 
triumphed  over  Maggie's  devoted  silly  womanishness. 
Maggie  was  for  sitting  up  through  the  night ;  she  was 
anxious  to  wear  herself  out  for  no  reason  whatever; 
but  he  had  sent  her  to  bed  until  three  o'clock,  promising 
to  call  her  if  she  should  be  needed.  The  exhausted 
girl  was  full  of  sagacity  save  on  that  one  point  of 
martyrdom  to  the  fullest — apparently  with  her  a  point 
of  honour.  For  the  sake  of  the  sensation  of  having 
martyrised  herself  utterly  she  was  ready  to  imperil  her 
fitness  for  the  morrow.  She  secretly  thought  it  was 
unfair  to  call  upon  him,  a  man,  to  share  her  fatigues. 
He  regarded  himself  as  her  superior  in  wisdom,  and 
he  was  relieved  that  anyone  so  wise  and  balanced  as 
Edwin  Clayhanger  had  taken  supreme  charge  of  the 
household  organism. 

Restless,  he  got  up  from  the  chair  and  looked  at 
the  bed.  He  had  heard  no  unusual  sound  therefrom, 
but  to  excuse  his  restlessness  he  had  said:  "Suppose 
some  change  had  occurred  and  I  didn't  notice  it!" 
No  change  had  occurred.  Auntie  Hamps  lay  like  a 
mite,  like  a  baby  forlorn,  senile  and  defenceless,  amid 
the  heaped  pillows  and  coverings  of  the  bed.  Within 
the  deep  gloom  of  the  canopy  and  the  over-arching 
curtains  only  her  small,  soft  face  was  alive ;  even  her 
hair  was  hidden  in  the  indentation  made  by  the  weight 
of  her  head  in  the  pillows.  She  was  unconscious, 
either  in  sleep  or  otherwise, — he  could  not  tell  how. 
And  in  her  unconsciousness  the  losing  but  obstinate 
fight  against  the  power  which  was  dragging  her  over 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  427 

the  edge  of  eternity  still  went  on.  It  showed  in  the 
apprehensive  character  of  her  breathing,  which  made 
a  little  momentary  periodic  cloud  above  her  face,  and 
in  the  uneasy  muscular  movements  of  the  lips  and 
jaws,  and  in  the  vague  noises  in  her  throat.  A  tre- 
mendous pity  for  her  re-entered  his  heart,  almost  break- 
ing it,  because  she  was  so  beaten,  and  so  fallen  from 
the  gorgeousness  of  her  splendour.  Even  Minnie  could 
have  imposed  her  will  upon  Auntie  Hamps  now;  each 
hour  she  weakened. 

He  had  no  more  resentment  against  her  on  account 
of  Minnie,  no  accusation  to  formulate.  He  was  merely 
grieved,  with  a  compassionate  grief,  that  Auntie  Hamps 
had  learnt  so  little  while  living  so  long.  He  knew  that 
she  was  cruel  only  because  she  was  incapable  of  imag- 
ining what  it  was  to  be  Minnie.  He  understood.  She 
worshipped  God  under  the  form  of  respectability,  but 
she  did  worship  God.  Like  all  religious  votaries  she 
placed  religion  above  morality;  hence  her  chicane,  her 
inveterate  deceit  and  self-deceit.  It  was  with  a  relig- 
ious aim  that  she  had  concealed  from  him  the  es- 
trangement between  herself  and  Clara.  The  unity  of 
the  family  was  one  of  her  major  canons  (as  indeed 
it  was  one  of  Edwin's).  She  had  a  passion  for  her 
nephew  and  nieces.  It  was  a  grand  passion.  Her 
pride  in  them  must  have  been  as  terrific  as  her  longing 
that  they  and  all  theirs  should  conform  to  the  sole 
ideal  that  she  comprehended.  Undeniably  there  was 
something  magnificent  in  her  religion — her  unscrupu- 
lousness  in  the  practice  of  it,  and  the  mighty  consist- 
ency of  her  career.  She  had  lived.  He  ceased  to  pity 
her,  for  she  towered  above  pity.  She  was  dying,  but 
only  for  an  instant.  He  would  smile  at  his  aunt's  pri- 
meval notions  of  a  future  life,  yet  he  had  to  admit  that 
his  own  notions,  though  far  less  precise,  could  not 


428  THESE  TWAIN 

be  appreciably  less  crude.  He  and  she  were  anyhow 
at  one  in  the  profound  and  staggering  conviction  of  im- 
mortality. Enlightened  by  that  conviction,  he  was  able 
to  reduce  the  physical  and  mental  tragedy  of  the 
death-bed  to  its  right  proportions  as  a  transiency  be- 
tween the  heroic  past  and  the  inconceivable  future. 
And  in  the  stillness  of  the  room  and  the  stillness  of 
the  house,  perfumed  by  the  abnegation  of  Maggie  and 
the  desolate  woe  of  the  ruined  Minnie  whom  the  Clay- 
hangers  would  save,  and  in  the  outer  stillness  of  the 
little  street  with  the  Norman  church-tower  sticking  up 
out  of  history  at  the  bottom  of  its  slope,  Edwin  felt 
uplifted  and  serene. 

He  returned  to  the  rocking-chair. 

"She's  asleep  now  in  some  room  I've  never  seen!" 
he  reflected. 

He  was  suddenly  thinking  of  his  wife.  During  the 
previous  night,  lying  sleepless  close  to  her  while  she 
slept  soundly,  he  had  reflected  long  and  with  increasing 
pessimism.  The  solace  of  Hilda's  kiss  had  proved  fleet- 
ing. She  had  not  realised — he  himself  was  then  only 
realising  little  by  little — the  enormity  of  the  thing 
she  had  done.  What  she  had  deliberately  and  obsti- 
nately done  was  to  turn  him  out  of  his  house.  No 
injury  that  she  might  have  chosen  could  have  touched 
him  more  closely,  more  painfully, — for  his  house  to 
him  was  sacred.  Her  blundering  with  the  servants 
might  be  condoned,  but  what  excuse  was  it  possible  to 
find  for  this  precipitate  flight  to  London  involving  the 
summary  ejectment  from  the  home  of  him  who  had 
created  the  home  and  for  and  by  whom  the  home  chiefly 
existed?  True  the  astounding  feat  of  wrong-headed- 
ness  had  been  aided  by  the  mere  chance  of  Maggie's 
calling  (capricious  women  were  always  thus  lucky!), — 
Maggie's  suggestion  and  request  had  given  some  after- 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  429 

glow  of  reason  to  the  mad  project.  But  the  justifica- 
tion was  still  far  from  sufficient.  And  the  odious  idea 
haunted  him  that,  even  if  Maggie  had  not  called  with 
her  tale,  Hilda  would  have  persisted  in  her  scheme  all 
the  same.  Yes,  she  was  capable  of  that!  The  argu- 
ment that  George's  eyes  (of  whose  condition  she  had 
learnt  by  mere  hazard)  could  not  wait  until  domestic 
affairs  were  arranged,  was  too  grotesque  to  deserve  an 
answer. 

Lying  thus  close  to  his  wife  in  the  dark,  he  had 
perceived  that  the  conflict  between  his  individuality 
and  hers  could  never  cease.  No  diplomatic  devices 
of  manner  could  put  an  end  to  it.  And  he  had  seen 
also  that  as  they  both  grew  older  and  developed  more 
fully,  the  conflict  was  becoming  more  serious.  He  as- 
sumed that  he  had  faults,  but  he  was  solemnly  con- 
vinced that  the  faults  of  Hilda  were  tremendous,  es- 
sential, and  ineradicable.  She  had  a  faculty  for  acting 
contrary  to  justice  and  contrary  to  sense  which  was 
simply  monstrous.  And  it  had  always  been  so.  Her 
whole  life  had  been  made  up  of  impulsiveness  and  con- 
tumacy in  that  impulsiveness.  Witness  the  incredible 
scenes  of  the  strange  Dartmoor  episode — all  due  to  her 
stubborn  irrationality!  The  perspective  of  his  mar- 
riage was  plain  to  him  in  the  night, — and  it  ended  in 
a  rupture.  He  had  been  resolutely  blind  to  Hilda's  pe- 
culiarities, dismissing  incident  after  incident  as  an  iso- 
lated misfortune.  But  he  could  be  blind  no  more.  His 
marriage  was  all  of  a  piece,  and  he  must  and  would 
recognise  the  fact.  .  .  .  The  sequel  would  be  a  scan- 
dal! .  .  .  Well,  let  it  be  a  scandal!  As  the  minutes 
and  hours  passed  in  grim  meditation,  the  more  attract- 
ive grew  the  lost  freedom  of  the  bachelor  and  the  more 
ready  he  felt  to  face  any  ordeal  that  lay  between  him 
and  it.  ...  And  just  as  it  was  occurring  to  him 


430  THESE  TWAIN 

that  his  proper  course  was  to  have  fought  a  terrific 
open  decisive  battle  with  her  in  front  of  both  Maggie 
and  Ingpen  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

Upon  awaking,  barely  in  time  to  arouse  Hilda,  he 
knew  that  the  mood  of  the  night  had  not  melted  away 
as  such  moods  are  apt  to  melt  when  the  window  begins 
to  show  a  square  of  silver-grey.  The  mood  was  even 
intensified.  Hilda  had  divined  nothing.  She  never  did 
divine  the  tortures  which  she  inflicted  in  his  heart.  She 
did  not  possess  the  gumption  to  divine.  Her  demean- 
our had  been  amazing.  She  averred  that  she  had  not 
slept  at  all.  Instead  of  cajoling,  she  bullied.  Instead 
of  tacitly  admitting  that  she  was  infamously  wrong- 
ing him,  she  had  assumed  a  grievance  of  her  own — 
without  stating  it.  Once  she  had  said  discontentedly 

about  some  trifle:  "You  might  at  any  rate "  as 

though  the  victim  should  caress  the  executioner.  She 
had  kissed  him  at  departure,  but  not  as  usual  effusively, 
and  he  had  suffered  the  kiss  in  enmity;  and  after  an 
unimaginable  general  upset  and  confusion,  in  which 
George  had  shown  himself  strangely  querulous,  she 
had  driven  off  with  her  son, — unconscious,  stupidly  una- 
ware, that  she  was  leaving  a  disaster  behind  her.  And 
last  of  all  Edwin,  solitary,  had  been  forced  to  per- 
form the  final  symbolic  act,  that  of  locking  him  out 
of  his  own  sacred  home !  The  affair  had  transcended 
belief. 

All  day  at  the  works  his  bitterness  and  melancholy 
had  been  terrible,  and  the  works  had  been  shaken  with 
apprehension,  for  no  angry  menaces  are  more  discon- 
certing than  those  of  a  man  habitually  mild.  Before 
evening  he  had  decided  to  write  to  his  wife  from  Auntie 
Hamps's, — a  letter  cold,  unanswerable,  crushing,  that 
would  confront  her  unes capably  with  the  alternatives 
of  complete  submission  or  complete  separation.  The 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  431 

phrases  of  the  letter  came  into  his  mind.  .  .  .  He 
would  see  who  was  master.  .  .  .  He  had  been  full  of 
the  letter  when  he  entered  Auntie  Hamps's  lobby.  But 
the  strange  tone  in  which  Maggie  had  answered  his 
questions  about  the  sick  woman  had  thrust  the  letter 
and  the  crisis  right  to  the  back  of  his  mind,  where 
they  had  uneasily  remained  throughout  the  evening. 
And  now  in  the  rocking-chair  he  was  reflecting: 
"She's  asleep  in  some  room  I've  never  seen!" 
He  smiled,  such  a  smile,  candid,  generous,  and  affec- 
tionate, as  was  Hilda's  joy,  such  a  smile  as  Hilda  dwelt 
on  in  memory  when  she  was  alone.  The  mood  of  re- 
sentment passed  away,  vanished  like  a  nightmare  at 
dawn,  and  like  one  of  his  liverish  headaches  dispersed 
suddenly  after  the  evening  meal.  He  saw  everything 
differently.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  entirely  wrong  in 
his  estimate  of  the  situation,  and  of  Hilda.  Hilda  was 
a  mother.  She  had  the  protective  passion  of  maternity. 
She  was  carried  away  by  her  passions ;  but  her  passions 
were  noble,  marvellous,  unique.  He  himself  could  never 
— he  thought,  humbled — attain  to  her  emotional 
heights.  He  was  incapable  of  feeling  about  anything 
or  anybody  as  she  felt  about  George.  The  revelation 
concerning  George's  eyesight  had  shocked  her,  over<r 
whelmed  her  with  remorse,  driven  every  other  idea  out 
of  her  head.  She  must  atone  to  George  instantly; 
instantly  she  must  take  measures — the  most  drastic  and 
certain — to  secure  him  from  the  threatened  danger. 
She  could  not  count  the  cost  till  afterwards.  She  was 
not  a  woman  in  such  moments, — she  was  an  instinct,  a 
desire,  a  ruthless  purpose.  And  as  she  felt  towards 
George,  so  she  must  feel,  in  other  circumstances,  to- 
wards himself.  Her  kisses  proved  it,  and  her  soothing 
hand  when  he  was  unwell.  Mrs.  Hamps  had  said :  "Eh, 
dear!  What  a  good  mother  dear  Hilda  is!"  A  senti- 


432  THESE  TWAIN 

mental  outcry!  But  there  was  profound  truth  in  it, 
truth  which  the  old  woman  had  seen  better  than  he 
had  seen  it.  "I  daresay  there  never  was  such  a  mother 
— unless  it's  Clara !"  Hyperbole !  And  yet  he  himself 
now  began  to  think  that  there  never  could  have  been 
such  a  mother  as  Hilda.  Clara  too  in  her  way  was 
wonderful.  .  .  .  Smile  as  you  might,  these  mothers 
were  tremendous.  The  mysterious  sheen  of  their  nar- 
row and  deep  lives  dazzled  him.  For  the  first  time,  per- 
haps, he  bowed  his  head  to  Clara. 

But  Hilda  was  far  beyond  Clara.  She  was  not 
only  a  mother  but  a  lover.  Would  he  cut  himself  off 
from  her  loving?  Why?  For  what?  To  live  alone 
in  the  arid  and  futile  freedom  of  a  Tertius  Ingpen? 
Such  a  notion  was  fatuous.  Where  lay  the  difficulty 
between  himself  and  Hilda?  There  was  no  difficulty. 
How  had  she  harmed  him?  She  had  not  harmed  him. 

^s 

Everything  was  all  right.  He  had  only  to  under- 
stand. He  understood.  As  for  her  impulsiveness, 
her  wrongheadedness,  her  bizarre  ratiocination, — he 
knew  how  to  accept  them,  for  was  he  not  a  philosopher? 
They  were  indeed  part  of  the  incomparable  romance 
of  existence  with  these  prodigious  and  tantalising 
creatures.  He  admitted  that  Hilda  in  some  aspects 
transcended  him,  but  in  others  he  was  comfortably  con- 
fident of  his  own  steady,  conquering  superiority.  He 
thought  of  her  with  the  most  exquisite  devotion.  He 
pictured  the  secret  tenderness  of  their  reunion  amid  the 
conventional  gloom  of  Auntie  Hamps's  death-bed. 
.  .  .  He  was  confident  of  his  ability  to  manage  Hilda, 
at  any  rate  in  the  big  things, — for  example  the  dis- 
puted points  of  his  entry  into  public  activity  and  their 
removal  from  Trafalgar  Road  into  the  country.  The 
sturdiness  of  the  male  inspired  him.  At  the  same  time 
the  thought  of  the  dark  mood  from  which  he  had 


AUNTIE  HAMPS  SENTENCED  433 

emerged  obscurely  perturbed  him,  like  a  fearful  danger 
passed;  and  he  argued  to  himself  with  satisfaction, 
and  yet  not  quite  with  conviction,  that  he  had  yielded 
to  Maggie,  and  not  to  Hilda,  in  the  affair  of  the  jour- 
ney to  London,  and  that  therefore  his  masculine  mar- 
ital dignity  was  intact. 

And  then  he  started  at  a  strange  sound  below,  which 
somehow  recalled  him  to  the  nervous  tension  of  the 
house.  It  was  a  knocking  at  the  front-door.  His  heart 
thumped  at  the  formidable  muffled  noise  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  He  jumped  up,  and  glanced  at  the  bed. 
Auntie  Hamps  was  not  wakened.  He  went  downstairs 
where  the  gas  which  he  had  lighted  was  keeping  watch. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DEATH  AND  BURIAL 


ALBERT  BENBOW  was  at  the  front-door.  Edwin 
curbed  the  expression  of  his  astonishment. 

"Hello,  Albert!" 

"Oh!     You  aren't  gone  to  bed?" 

"Not  likely.     Come  in.     What's  up?" 

Albert,  with  the  habit  of  one  instructed  never  to 
tread  actually  on  a  doorstep  lest  it  should  be  newly 
whitened,  stepped  straight  on  to  the  inner  mat.  He 
seemed  excited,  and  Edwin  feared  that  he  had  just 
learnt  of  Auntie  Hamps's  illness  and  had  come  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  ostensibly  to  make  enquiries,  but 
really  to  make  a  grievance  of  the  fact  that  the  Ben- 
bows  had  been  "kept  in  ignorance."  He  could  already 
hear  Albert  demanding :  "Why  have  you  kept  us  in  ig- 
norance?" It  was  quite  a  Benbow  phrase. 

Edwin  shut  the  door  and  shut  out  the  dark  and 
windy  glimpse  of  the  outer  world  which  had  empha- 
sised for  a  moment  the  tense  seclusion  of  the  house. 

"You've  heard  of  course  about  the  accident  to  Ing- 
pen?"  said  Albert.  His  hands  were  deep  in  his  over- 
coat pockets;  the  collar  of  the  thin,  rather  shabby 
overcoat  was  turned  up;  an  old  cap  adhered  to  the 
back  of  his  head.  While  talking  he  slowly  lifted  his 
feet  one  after  the  other,  as  though  desiring  to  get 
warmth  by  stamping  but  afraid  to  stamp  in  the  night. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Edwin,  with  false  calmness. 
"What  accident?" 

434 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  435 

The  perspective  of  events  seemed  to  change ;  Auntie 
Hamps's  illness  to  recede,  and  a  definite  and  familiar 
apprehension  to  be  supplanted  by  a  fear  more  formi- 
dable because  it  was  a  fear  of  the  unknown. 

"It  was  all  in  the  late  special  Signal!"  Benbow  pro- 
tested, as  if  his  pride  had  been  affronted. 

"Well,  I  haven't  seen  the  Signal.  What  is  it?" 
And  Edwin  thought:  "Is  somebody  else  dying  too?" 

"Fly-wheel  broke.  Ingpen  was  inspecting  the  slip- 
house  next  to  the  engine-house.  Part  of  the  fly-wheel 
came  through  and  knocked  a  loose  nut  off  the  blunger 
right  into  his  groin." 

"Whose  works?" 

Albert  answered  in  a  light  tone: 

"Mine." 

"And  how's  he  going  on?" 

"Well,  he's  had  an  operation  and  Sterling's  got  the 
nut  out.  Of  course  they  didn't  know  what  it  was  till 
they  got  it  out.  And  now  Ingpen  wants  to  see  you  at 
once.  That's  why  I've  come." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  the  hospital." 

"Pirehill?" 

"No.     The  Clowes — Moorthorne  Road,  you  know." 

"Is  he  going  on  all  right?" 

"He's  very  weak.  He  can  scarcely  whisper.  But 
he  wants  you.  I've  been  up  there  all  the  time,  prac- 
tically." 

Edwin  seized  his  overcoat  from  the  rack. 

"I  had  a  rare  job  finding  ye,"  Benbow  went  on.  "I'd 
no  idea  you  weren't  all  at  home.  I  wakened  most  of 
Hulton  Street  over  it.  It  was  Smiths  next  door  came 
out  at  last  and  told  me  missis  and  George  had  gone 
to  London  and  you  were  over  here." 

"I  wonder  who  told  them!"  Edwin  mumbled  as  Al- 


436  THESE  TWAIN 

bert  helped  him  with  the  overcoat.  "I  must  tell  Mag- 
gie. We've  got  some  illness  here,  you  know." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes.  Auntie.  Very  sudden.  Seemed  to  get  worse 
to-night.  Fact  is  I  was  sitting  up  while  Maggie  has  a 
bit  of  sleep.  She  was  going  to  send  round  for  Clara 
in  the  morning.  I'll  just  run  up  to  Mag." 

Having  thus  by  judicious  misrepresentation  deprived 
the  Benbows  of  a  grievance,  Edwin  moved  towards  the 
stairs.  Maggie,  dressed,  already  stood  at  the  top  of 
them,  alert,  anxious,  adequate. 

"Albert,  is  that  you?" 

After  a  few  seconds  of  quick  murmured  explanation, 
Edwin  and  Albert  departed,  and  as  they  went  Maggie, 
in  a  voice  doubly  harassed  but  cheerful  and  oily  called 
out  after  them  how  glad  she  would  be,  and  what  a  help 
it  would  be,  if  Clara  could  come  round  early  in  the 
morning. 

The  small  Clowes  Hospital  was  high  up  in  the  town 
opposite  the  Park,  near  the  station  and  the  railway* 
cutting  and  not  far  from  the  Moorthorne  ridge.  Be- 
hind its  bushes,  through  which  the  wet  night-wind 
swished  and  rustled,  it  looked  still  very  new  and  red 
in  the  fitful  moonlight.  And  indeed  it  was  scarcely 
older  than  the  Park  and  swimming-baths  close  by,  and 
Bursley  had  not  yet  lost  its  nai've  pride  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  hospital  of  its  own.  Not  much  earlier  in 
the  decade  this  town  of  thirty-five  thousand  inhabitants 
had  had  to  send  all  its  "cases"  five  miles  in  cabs  to 
Pirehill  Infirmary.  Albert  Benbow,  with  the  satisfac- 
tion of  a  habitue,  led  Edwin  round  through  an  aisle 
of  bushes  to  the  side-entrance  for  out-patients.  He 
pushed  open  a  dark  door,  walked  into  a  gaslit  vestibule, 
and  with  the  assured  gestures  of  a  proprietor  invited 
Edwin  to  follow.  A  fat  woman  who  looked  like  a  char' 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  437 

woman  made  tidy  sat  in  a  windsor-chair  in  the  vestibule, 
close  to  a  radiator.  She  signed  to  Albert  as  an  old 
acquaintance  to  go  forward,  and  Albert  nodded  in  the 
manner  of  one  conspirator  to  another.  What  struck 
Edwin  was  that  this  middle-aged  woman  showed  no 
sign  of  being  in  the  midst  of  the  unusual.  She  was  ut- 
terly casual  and  matter-of-fact.  And  Edwin  had  the 
sensation  of  moving  in  a  strange  nocturnal  world — a 
world  which  had  always  co-existed  with  his  own,  but  of 
which  he  had  been  till  then  most  curiously  ignorant. 
His  passage  through  the  town  listening  absently  to 
Albert's  descriptions  of  the  structural  damage  to  Ing- 
pen  and  to  the  works,  and  Albert's  defence  against 
unbrought  accusations,  had  shown  him  that  the  silent 
streets  lived  long  after  midnight  in  many  a  lighted  win- 
dow here  and  there  and  in  the  movements  of  mysterious 
but  not  furtive  frequenters.  And  he  seemed  to  have  been 
impinging  upon  half-veiled  enigmas  of  misfortune  or  of 
love.  At  the  other  end  of  the  thread  of  adventure 
was  his  aunt's  harsh  bedroom  with  Maggie  stolidly 
watching  the  last  ebb  of  senile  vitality,  and  at  this 
end  was  the  hospital,  full  of  novel  and  disturbing  vi- 
brations and  Tertius  Ingpen  waiting  to  impose  upon 
him  some  charge  or  secret. 

At  the  top  of  the  naked  stairs  which  came  after  a 
dark  corridor  was  a  long  naked  resounding  passage 
lighted  by  a  tiny  jet  at  either  end.  A  cough  from  be- 
hind a  half-open  door  came  echoing  out  and  filled  the 
night  and  the  passage.  And  then  at  another  door  ap- 
peared a  tall,  thin,  fair  nurse  in  blue  and  white,  with 
thin  lips  and  a  slight  smile  hard  and  disdainful. 

"Here's  Mr.  Clayhanger,  nurse!"  muttered  Albert 
Benbow,  taking  off  his  cap,  with  a  grimace  at  once 
sycophantic  and  grandiose. 

Edwin  imagined  that  he  knew  by  sight  everybody  in 


438  THESE  TWAIN 

the  town  above  a  certain  social  level,  but  he  had  no 
memory  of  the  face  of  the  nurse, 

"How  is  he?"  he  asked  awkwardly,  fingering  his  hat. 

The  girl  merely  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"You  mustn't  stay,"  said  she,  in  a  mincing  but  rather 
loud  voice  that  matched  her  lips. 

"Oh  no,  I  won't !" 

"I  suppose  Td  better  stop  outside!"  said  Benbow. 

Edwin  f  ollowed\  the  nurse  into  a  darkened  room,  of 
which  the  chief  article  of  furniture  appeared  to  be  a 
screen.  Behind  the  screen  was  a  bed,  and  on  the  bed 
in  the  deep  obscurity  lay  a  form  under  creaseless  bed- 
clothes. Edwin  first  recognised  Ingpen's  beard,  then 
his  visage  very  pale  and  solemn,  and  without  the  cus- 
tomary spectacles.  Of  the  whole  body  only  the  eyes 
moved.  As  Edwin  approached  the  bed  he  cast  across 
Ingpen  a  shadow  from  the  distant  gas. 

"Well,  old  chap !"  he  began  with  constraint.  "This 
is  a  nice  state  of  affairs!  How  are  you  getting  on?" 

Ingpen's  enquiring  apprehensive  dumb  glance  silenced 
the  clumsy  greeting.  It  was  just  as  if  he  had  rebuked: 
"This  is  no  time  for  How  d'ye  do's."  When  he  had 
apparently  made  sure  that  Edwin  was  Edwin,  Ingpen 
turned  his  eyes  to  the  nurse. 

"Water,"  he  whispered. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"Net  yet,"  she  replied,  with  tepid  indifference. 

Ingpen's  eyes  remained  on  her  a  moment  and  then 
went  back  to  Edwin. 

"Ed,"  he  whispered,  and  gazed  once  more  at  the 
nurse,  who,  looking  away  from  the  bed,  did  not  move. 

Edwin  bent  over  the  bed. 

"Ed,"  Ingpen  demanded,  speaking  very  deliber- 
ately. "Go  to  my  office.  In  the  top  drawer  of  the 
desk  in  the  bedroom  there's  some  photos  and  letters. 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  439 

.  .  .  Burn  them.  .  .  .  Before  morning.  .  .  .  Under- 
stand?5' 

Edwin  was  profoundly  stirred.  In  his  emotion  was 
pride  at  Ingpen's  trust,  astonishment  at  the  sudden,  ut- 
terly unexpected  revelation,  and  the  thrill  of  romance. 

He  thought: 

"The  man  is  dying!" 

And  the  tragic  sensation  of  the  vigil  of  the  nocturnal 
world  almost  overcame  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "Anything  else?" 

"No." 

"What  about  keys?" 

Ingpen  gave  him  another  long  glance. 

"Trousers." 

"Where  are  his  clothes?"  Edwin  asked  the  nurse, 
whose  lips  were  ironic. 

"Oh!  They'll  tell  you  downstairs.  You'd  better  go 
now." 

As  he  went  from  the  room  he  could  feel  Ingpen's 
glance  following  him.  He  raged  inwardly  against  the 
callousness  of  the  nurse.  It  seemed  monstrous  that 
he  should  abandon  Ingpen  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  de- 
fenceless, to  the  cold  tyranny  of  the  nurse,  whose 
power  over  the  sufferer  was  as  absolute  as  that  of  an 
eastern  monarch,  who  had  never  heard  of  public 
opinion,  over  the  meanest  slave.  He  could  not  bear 
to  picture  to  himself  Ingpen  and  the  nurse  alone  to- 
gether. 

"Isn't  he  allowed  to  drink?"  he  could  not  help  mur- 
muring, at  the  door. 

"Yes.    At  intervals." 

He  wanted  to  chastise  the  nurse.  He  imagined  an 
endless  succession  of  sufferers  under  her  appalling,  in- 
imical nonchalance.  Who  had  allowed  her  to  be  a 
nurse?  Had  she  become  a  nurse  in  order  to  take  some 


440  THESE  TWAIN 

needed  revenge  against  mankind  ?  And  then  he  thought 
of  Hilda's  passionate,  succouring  tenderness  when  he 
himself  was  unwell, — he  had  not  been  really  ill  for 
years.  What  was  happening  to  Ingpen  could  never 
happen  to  him,  because  Hilda  stood  everlastingly  be- 
tween him  and  such  a  horror.  He  considered  that  a 
bachelor  was  the  most  pathetic  creature  on  the  earth. 
He  was  drenched  in  the  fearful,  wistful  sadness  of  all 
life.  .  .  .  The  sleeping  town;  Auntie  Hamps  on  the 
edge  of  eternity;  Minnie  trembling  at  the  menaces  of 
her  own  body;  Hilda  lying  in  some  room  that  he  had 
never  seen;  and  Ingpen  .  .  .  ! 

"Soon  over!"  observed  Albert  Benbow  in  the  cor- 
ridor. 

Edwin  could  have  winced  at  the  words. 

"How  do  you  think  he  is?"  asked  Albert. 

"Don't  know!"  Edwin  replied.  "Look  here,  I've  got 
to  get  hold  of  his  clothes — downstairs." 

"Oh!    That's  it,  is  it?    Pocket-book!    Keys!    Eh?" 


Edwin  had  once  been  in  Tertius  Ingpen's  office  at  the 
bottom  of  Crown  Square,  Hanbridge,  but  never  in  the 
bedroom  which  Ingpen  rented  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
same  building.  It  had  been  for  seventy  or  eighty  years 
a  building  of  four  squat  storeys;  but  a  new  landlord, 
seeing  the  architectural  development  of  the  town  as  a 
local  metropolis  and  determined  to  join  in  it  at  a  min- 
imum of  expense,  had  knocked  the  two  lower  storeys 
into  one,  fronted  them  with  fawn-coloured  terra  cotta, 
and  produced  a  lofty  shop  whose  rent  exceeded  the 
previous  rent  of  the  entire  house. 

The  landlord  knew  that  passers-by  would  not  look 
higher  up  the  fa9ade  than  the  ground-floor,  and  that 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  441 

therefore  any  magnificence  above  that  level  was  merely 
wasted.  The  shop  was  in  the  occupation  of  a  tea- 
dealer  who  gave  away  beautiful  objects  such  as  vases 
and  useful  objects  such  as  tea-trays,  to  all  purchasers. 
Ingpen's  office,  and  a  solicitor's  office,  were  on  the  first 
floor,  formerly  the  second ;  the  third  floor  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Hanbridge  and  District  Ethical  So- 
ciety ;  the  top  floor  was  temporarily  unlet,  save  for  Ing- 
pen's  room.  Nobody  except  Ingpen  slept  in  the  build- 
ing, and  he  very  irregularly. 

The  latchkey  for  the  sidedoor  was  easy  to  choose 
in  the  glittering  light  of  the  latest  triple- jetted  and 
reflectored  gaslamps  which  the  corporation,  to  match 
the  glories  of  the  new  town-hall,  had  placed 
in  Crown  Square.  The  lock,  strange  to  say,  worked 
easily.  Edwin  entered  somewhat  furtively,  and  as 
it  were  guiltily,  though  in  Crown  Square  and  the 
streets  and  the  other  squares  visible  therefrom,  not 
a  soul  could  be  seen.  The  illuminated  clock  of  the 
Old  Town  Hall  at  the  top  of  the  square  showed  twenty- 
five  minutes  to  four.  Immediately  within  the  door  began 
a  new,  very  long  and  rather  mean  staircase,  with  which 
Edwin  was  acquainted.  He  closed  the  door,  shutting 
out  the  light  and  the  town,  and  struck  a  match  in  the 
empty  building.  He  had  walked  into  Hanbridge  from 
Bursley,  and  as  soon  as  he  began  to  climb  the  stairs  he 
was  aware  of  great  fatigue,  both  physical  and  mental. 
The  calamity  to  Ingpen  had  almost  driven  Auntie 
Hamps  out  of  his  mind;  it  had  not,  however,  driven 
Minnie  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  gloomy  and  indignant 
on  behalf  of  both  Ingpen  and  Minnie.  They  were  both 
victims.  Minnie  was  undoubtedly  a  fool,  and  he  was 
about  to  learn,  perhaps,  to  what  extent  Ingpen  had 
been  a  fool. 

Each   footstep  sounded  loud  on  the  boards  of 


442  THESE  TWAIN 

deserted  house.  Having  used  several  matches  and 
arrived  at  the  final  staircase,  Edwin  wondered  how 
he  was  to  distinguish  Ingpen's  room  there  from  the 
others  without  trying  keys  in  all  of  them  till  he  got  to 
the  right  one.  But  on  the  top  landing  he  had  no  dif- 
ficulty, for  Ingpen's  card  was  fastened  with  a  drawing- 
pin  on  to  the  first  door  he  saw.  A  match  burnt  his 
fingers  and  expired  just  as  he  was  shaking  out  a  likely 
key  from  Ingpen's  bunch.  And  then,  in  the  black  dark- 
ness, he  perceived  a  line  of  light  under  the  door  in  front 
of  which  he  stood.  He  forgot  his  fatigue  in  an  instant. 
His  heart  leaped.  A  burglar?  Or  had  Ingpen  left  the 
gas  burning  ?  Ingpen  could  not  have  left  the  gas  burn- 
ing since,  according  to  Albert  Benbow,  he  had  been  in 
Bursley  all  afternoon.  With  precautions,  and  feeling 
very  desperate  and  yet  also  craven,  he  lit  a  fresh  match 
and  managed  quietly  to  open  the  door,  which  was  not 
locked. 

As  soon  as  he  beheld  the  illuminated  interior  of  the 
room,  all  his  skin  crept  and  flushed  as  though  he  had 
taken  a  powerful  stimulant.  A  girl  reclined  asleep  in 
a  small  basket  lounge-chair  by  the  gas-fire.  He  could 
not  see  her  face,  which  was  turned  towards  the  wall 
and  away  from  the  gas-jet  that  hung  from  the  ceiling 
over  an  old  desk;  but  she  seemed  slim  and  graceful, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  abandonment  of  un- 
consciousness that  made  her  marvellously  alluring. 
Her  hat  and  gloves  had  been  thrown  on  the  desk,  and 
a  cloak  lay  on  a  chair.  These  coloured  and  intimate 
objects — extensions  of  the  veritable  personality  of  the 
girl — had  the  effect  of  delightfully  completing  the  furn- 
iture of  a  room  which  was  in  fact  rather  bare.  A  nar- 
row bed  in  the  far  corner,  disguised  under  a  green  rug 
as  a  sofa;  a  green  square  of  carpet,  showing  the  un- 
polished boards  at  the  sides ;  the  desk,  and  three  chairs ; 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  443 

a  primitive  hanging  wardrobe  in  another  corner,  hid- 
den by  a  bulging  linen  curtain ;  a  portmanteau ;  a  few 
unframed  prints  on  the  walls;  an  alarm-clock  on  the 
mantelpiece, — there  was  nothing  else  in  the  chamber 
where  Ingpen  slept  when  it  was  too  late,  or  he  was  too 
slack,  to  go  to  his  proper  home.  But  nothing  else 
was  needed.  The  scene  was  perfect;  the  girl  rendered 
it  so.  And  immense  envy  of,  and  admiration  for,  Ing- 
pen  surged  through  Edwin,  who  saw  here  the  realisa- 
tion of  a  dream  that  was  to  marriage  what  poetry  is 
to  prose.  Ingpen  might  rail  against  women  and  against 
marriage  in  a  manner  exaggerated  and  indefensible ;  but 
he  had  at  any  rate  known  how  to  arrange  his  life  and 
how  to  keep  his  own  counsel.  He  had  all  the  careless 
masculine  freedom  of  his  condition, — and  in  the  back- 
ground this  exquisite  phenomenon!  The  girl,  her 
trustfulness,  her  abandonment,  her  secrecy,  that  white 
ear  peeping  out  of  her  hair, — were  his!  It  was  stag- 
gering that  such  romance  could  exist  in  the  Five  Towns, 
of  all  places — for  Edwin  had  the  vague  notion,  com- 
mon to  all  natives,  that  his  own  particular  district  fell 
short  of  full  human  nature  in  certain  characteristics. 
For  example,  he  could  credit  a  human  nature  dying  for 
love  in  Manchester,  but  never  in  the  Five  Towns.  Even 
the  occasional  divorces  that  gave  piquancy  to  life  in 
the  Five  Towns  seemed  to  lack  the  mysterious  glamour 
of  all  other  divorces. 

He  thought: 

"Was  it  because  he  was  expecting  her  that  he  sent 
me?  Perhaps  the  desk  was  only  a  blind — and  he 
couldn't  tell  me  any  more.  Anyhow  I  shall  have  to 
break  it  to  her." 

He  felt  exceedingly  awkward  and  unequal  to  the  sit- 
uation so  startling  in  its  novelty.  Yet  he  did  not  wish 
himself  away. 


444  THESE  TWAIN 

As  timidly,  hat  in  hand,  he  went  forward  into  the 
room,  the  girl  stirred  and  woke  up,  to  the  creaking 
of  the  chair. 

"Oh!  Tert!"  she  murmured  between  sleeping  and 
waking. 

Edwin  did  not  like  her  voice.  It  reminded  him  of 
the  voice  of  the  nurse  whom  he  had  just  left. 

The  girl,  looking  round,  perceived  that  it  was  not 
Tertius  Ingpen  who  had  come  in.  She  gave  a  short, 
faint  scream,  then  gathered  herself  together  and  with 
a  single  movement  stood  up,  perfectly  collected  and 
on  the  defensive. 

"It's  all  right!  It's  all  right!"  said  Edwin.  "Mr. 
Ingpen  gave  me  his  keys  and  asked  me  to  come  over 
and  get  some  papers  he  wants.  ...  I  hope  I  didn't 
frighten  you.  I'd  no  idea " 

She  was  old!  She  was  old!  That  is  to  say,  she  was 
not  the  girl  he  had  seen  asleep.  Before  his  marriage 
he  would  have  put  her  age  at  thirty-two,  but  now  he 
knew  enough  to  be  sure  that  she  must  be  more  than 
that.  She  was  not  graceful  in  movement.  The  ex- 
pression of  her  pale  face  was  not  agreeable.  Her  ges- 
tures were  not  distinguished.  And  she  could  not  act 
her  part  in  the  idyll.  Moreover  her  frock  was  shabby 
and  untidy.  But  chiefly  she  was  old.  Had  she  been 
young,  Edwin  would  have  excused  all  the  rest.  Ro- 
mance was  not  entirely  destroyed,  but  very  little  re- 
mained. 

He  thought,  disdainfully,  and  as  if  resenting  a  de- 
ception : 

"Is  this  the  best  he  can  do?" 

And  the  Five  Towns  sank  back  to  its  ancient  humble 
place  in  his  esteem. 

The  woman  said  with  a  silly  nervous  giggle : 

"I  called  to  see  Mr.  Ingpen.     He  wasn't  expecting 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  445 

me.  And  I  suppose  while  I  was  waiting  I  must  have 
dropped  off  to  sleep." 

It  might  have  been  true,  but  to  Edwin  it  was  in- 
expressibly inane. 

She  seized  her  hat  and  then  her  cloak. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  Mr.  Ingpen's  had  an  accident," 
said  Edwin. 

She  stopped,  both  hands  above  her  head  fingering 
her  hat. 

"An  accident?     Nothing  serious?" 

"Oh  no !  I  don't  think  so,"  he  lied.  "A  machinery 
accident.  They  had  to  take  him  to  the  Clowes  Hos- 
pital at  Bursley.  I've  just  come  from  there." 

She  asked  one  or  two  more  questions,  all  the  time 
hurrying  her  preparations  to  leave.  But  Edwin  judged 
with  disgust  that  she  was  not  deeply  interested  in  the 
accident.  True,  he  had  minimised  it,  but  she  ought  not 
to  have  allowed  him  to  minimise  it.  She  ought  to  have 
obstinately  believed  that  it  was  very  grave. 

"I  do  hope  he'll  soon  be  all  right,"  she  said,  snatch- 
ing at  her  gloves  and  going  to  the  door.  "Good  night !" 
She  gave  another  silly  giggle,  preposterous  in  a  woman 
of  her  age.  Then  she  stopped.  "I  think  you're  gen- 
tleman enough  not  to  say  anything  about  me  being 
here,"  she  said,  rather  nastily.  "It  was  quite  an  ac- 
cident. I  could  easily  explain  it,  but  you  know  what 
people  are  1" 

What  a  phrase — "I  think  you're  gentleman 
enough !" 

He  blushed  and  offered  the  required  assurance. 

"Can  I  let  you  out?"  he  started  forward. 

"No,  thanks!" 

"But  you  can't  open  the  door." 

"Yes  I  can." 

"The  stairs  are  all  dark." 


446  THESE  TWAIN 

"Please  don't  trouble  yourself,"  she  said  drily,  in  the 
tone  of  a  woman  who  sees  offence  in  the  courtesy  of 
a  male  travelling  companion  on  the  railway. 

He  heard  her  steps  diminuendo  down  the  stairs. 

Closing  the  door,  he  went  to  the  window,  and  drew 
aside  the  blind.  Perhaps  she  would  pass  up  the  Square. 
But  she  did  not  pass  up  the  Square  which  was  peopled 
by  nothing  but  meek  gaslamps  under  the  empire  of  the 
glowing  clock  in  the  pediment  of  the  Old  Town  Hall. 
Where  had  she  gone?  Where  did  she  come  from?  Her 
accent  had  no  noticeable  peculiarity.  Was  she  mar- 
ried, or  single,  or  a  widow?  Perhaps  there  was  hidden 
in  her  some  strange  and  seductive  quality  which  he 
had  missed.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  slim  girl  again  reclin- 
ing in  the  basket-chair.  .  .  .  After  all,  she  was  a 
woman,  and  she  had  been  in  Ingpen's  room,  waiting  for 
him! 

Later,  seated  in  front  of  the  open  drawer  in  the 
old  desk,  gathering  together  letters  and  photographs — 
photographs  of  her  in  adroitly  managed  poses,  taken 
at  Oldham ;  letters  in  a  woman's  hand — he  was  pene- 
trated to  the  marrow  by  the  disastrous  and  yet  beau- 
tiful infelicity  of  things.  The  mere  sight  of  the  let- 
ters (of  which  he  forebore  to  decipher  a  single  word, 
even  a  signature)  nearly  made  him  cry;  the  photo- 
graphs were  tragic  with  the  intolerable  evanescence  of 
life.  By  the  will  of  Tertius  Ingpen  helpless  on  the 
bed  in  the  hospital,  these  documents  of  a  passion  or 
of  a  fancy  were  to  be  burnt.  Why?  Was  it  true  that 
Ingpen  was  dying?  Better  to  keep  them.  No,  they 
must  be  burnt.  He  rose,  and,  with  difficulty,  burnt 
them  by  instalments  in  a  shovel  over  the  tiny  fender 
that  enclosed  the  gas-stove, — the  room  was  soon  half 
full  of  smoke.  .  .  .  Why  had  he  deceived  the  woman 
as  to  the  seriousness  of  Ingpen's  accident?  To  simplify 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  447 

and  mitigate  the  interview,  to  save  himself  trouble;  that 
was  all!  Well,  she  would  learn  soon  enough! 

His  eye  caught  a  print  on  the  wall  above  the  bed, — 
a  classic  example  of  the  sentimentality  of  Marcus 
Stone:  departing  cavalier,  drooping  maiden,  terraced 
garden.  It  was  a  dreadful  indictment  of  the  Tertius 
Ingpen  who  talked  so  well,  with  such  intellectual  ap- 
lomb, with  such  detachment  and  exceptional  cynicism. 
It  was  like  a  ray  exposing  some  secret  sinister  corner 
in  the  man's  soul.  He  had  hung  up  that  print  because 
it  gave  him  pleasure!  Poor  chap!  But  Edwin  loved 
him.  He  decided  that  he  would  call  again  at  the  hos- 
pital before  returning  to  Auntie  Hamps's.  Impossible 
that  the  man  was  dying !  If  the  doctor  or  the  matron 
had  thought  he  was  in  danger  they  would  have  sum- 
moned his  relatives.  He  might  be  dying.  He  might  be 
dead.  He  must  have  immediately  feared  death,  or  he 
would  not  have  imposed  upon  Edwin  such  an  errand. 
.  .  .  What  simple,  touching,  admirable  trust  in  a 
friend's  loyalty  the  man  had  displayed! 

Edwin  put  out  the  gas-stove,  which  exploded,  lit  a 
match,  gave  a  great  yawn,  put  out  the  gas,  and  began 
the  enterprise  of  leaving  the  house. 

m 

"Look  here!  I  must  have  some  tea,  now!"  said 
Edwin  curtly  and  yet  appealingly  to  Maggie,  who 
opened  the  door  for  him  at  Auntie  Hamps's. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  He  had  been  to  the  hos- 
pital again,  and,  having  reported  in  three  words  to  Ing- 
pen,  whose  condition  was  unchanged,  had  remained  there 
some  time.  But  he  had  said  nothing  to  Ingpen  about 
the  woman.  At  six  o'clock  the  matron  had  come  into 
the  room,  and  the  nurse  thenceforward  until  seven 


448  THESE  TWAIN 

o'clock,  when  she  went  off  duty,  was  a  changed  girl. 
Edwin  slightly  knew  the  matron,  who  was  sympathetic 
but  strangely  pessimistic — considering  her  healthy,  full 
figure. 

"The  water's  boiling,"  answered  Maggie,  in  a  com- 
forting tone,  and  disappeared  instantly  into  the 
kitchen. 

Edwin  thought: 

"There  are  some  things  that  girl  understands !" 

She  had  shown  no  curiosity,  no  desire  to  impart 
news,  because  she  had  immediately  comprehended  that 
Edwin  was,  or  imagined  himself  to  be,  at  the  end  of  his 
endurance.  Maggie,  with  simple  and  surpassing  wis- 
dom had  just  said  to  herself:  "He's  been  out  all  night, 
and  he's  not  used  to  it."  For  a  moment  he  felt  that 
Maggie  was  wiser,  and  more  intimately  close  to  him, 
than  anybody  else  in  the  world. 

"In  the  dining-room,"  she  called  out  from  the 
kitchen. 

And  in  the  small  dining-room  there  was  a  fire !  It  was 
like  a  living,  welcoming  creature.  The  cloth  was  laid, 
the  gas  was  lighted.  On  the  table  was  beautiful  fresh 
bread  and  butter.  A  word,  a  tone,  a  glance  of  his  on 
the  previous  evening  had  been  enough  to  bring  back 
the  dining-room  into  use !  Happily  the  wind  suited  the 
chimney.  He  had  scarcely  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
fire  when  Maggie  entered  with  the  teapot.  And  at 
the  sight  of  the  teapot  Edwin  felt  that  he  was  saved. 
Before  the  tea  was  out  of  the  teapot  it  had  already 
magically  alleviated  the  desperate  sensations  of  phys- 
ical fatigue  and  moral  weariness  which  had  almost  over- 
come him  on  the  way  from  the  hospital  in  the  chill  and 
muddy  dawn. 

"What  will  you  have  to  eat?"  said  Maggie. 

"Nothing.     I  couldn't  eat  to  save  my  life." 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  449 

"Perhaps  you'll  have  a  bit  of  bread-and-butter 
later,"  said  Maggie  blandly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"How  is  she?" 

"Worse,"  said  Maggie.     "But  she's  slept." 

"Who's  up  with  her  now?     Minnie?" 

"No.     Clara." 

"Oh!     She's  come?" 

"She  came  at  seven." 

Edwin  was  drinking  the  divine  tea.  After  a  few 
gulps  he  told  Maggie  briefly  about  Tertius  Ingpen, 
saying  that  he  had  had  to  go  "on  business"  for  Ing- 
pen  to  Hanbridge. 

"Are  you  all  right  for  the  present?"  she  asked  after 
a  few  moments. 

He  nodded.     He  was  eating  bread-and-butter. 

"You  had  any  sleep  at  all?"  he  mumbled,  munch- 
ing. 

"Oh  yes!  A  little,"  she  answered  cheerfully,  leav- 
ing the  room. 

He  poured  out  more  tea,  and  then  sat  down  in  the 
sole  easy-chair  for  a  minute's  reflection  before  going 
upstairs  and  thence  to  the  works. 

Not  until  he  woke  up  did  he  realise  that  there  had 
been  any  danger  of  his  going  to  sleep.  The  earthen- 
ware clock  on  the  mantelpiece  (a  birthday  gift  from: 
Clara  and  Albert)  showed  five  minutes  past  eleven.. 
Putting  no  reliance  on  the  cheap,  horrible  clock,  he 
looked  at  his  watch,  which  had  stopped  for  lack  of 
winding  up.  The  fire  was  very  low.  His  chief  thought 
was:  "It  can't  possibly  be  eleven  o'clock,  because  I 
haven't  been  down  to  the  works,  and  I  haven't  sent 
word  I'm  not  coming  either!"  He  got  up  hurriedly 
and  had  reached  the  door  when  a  sound  of  a  voice  on 
the  stairs  held  him  still  like  an  enchantment.  It  seemed 


450  THESE  TWAIN 

to  be  the  voice,  eloquent,  and  indeed  somewhat  Church- 
of-England,  of  the  Rev.  Christian  Flowerdew,  the  new 
superintendent  of  the  Bursley  Wesleyan  Methodist 
Circuit.  The  voice  said:  "I  do  hope  so!"  and  then 
offered  a  resounding  remark  about  the  weather  being 
the  kind  of  weather  that,  bad  as  it  was,  people  must 
expect  in  view  of  the  time  of  year.  Maggie's  voice  con- 
curred. 

As  soon  as  the  front-door  closed,  Edwin  peeped  cau- 
tiously out  of  the  dining-room. 

"Who  was  that?"  he  murmured. 

"Mr.  Flowerdew.  She  wanted  him.  Albert  sent  for 
liim  early  this  morning." 

Maggie  came  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

"I've  been  to  sleep,"  said  Edwin. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  wasn't  going  to  have  you  disturbed. 
They're  all  here." 

"Who  are  all  here?" 

"Clara  and  the  children.  Auntie  asked  to  see  all  of 
them.  They  waited  in  the  drawing-room  for  Mr.  Flow- 
erdew to  go.  Bert  didn't  go  to  school  this  morning, 
in  case — because  it  was  so  far  off.  Clara  fetched  the 
others  out  of  school,  except  Rupy  of  course — he  doesn't 
go." 

"Good  heavens !  I  never  came  across  such  a  morbid 
lot  in  my  life.  I  believe  they  like  it." 

Clara  could  be  heard  marshalling,  the  brood  up  the 
stairs. 

"You'd  better  go  up,"  said  Maggie  persuasively. 

"I'd  better  go  to  the  works — I'm  no  use  here.  What 
time  is  it?" 

"After  eleven.    I  think  you'd  better  go  up." 

"Does  she  ask  for  me?" 

"Oh  yes.  All  the  time  sometimes.  But  she  forgets 
for  a  bit." 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  451 

"Well,  anyhow  I  must  wash  myself  and  change  my 
collar." 

"All  right.    Wash  yourself,  then." 

"How  is  she  now?" 

"She  isn't  taking  anything." 

When  Edwin  nervously  pushed  open  the  bedroom 
door,  the  room  seemed  to  be  crowded.  Over'the  heads 
of  clustering  children  towered  Clara  and  Albert.  As 
soon  as  the  watchful  Albert  paught  sight  of  Edwin,  he 
made  a  conspiratorial  sign  and  hurried  to  the  door, 
driving  Edwin  out  again. 

"Didn't  know  you  were  here,"  Edwin  muttered. 

"I  say,"  Albert  whispered.      "Has  she  made  a  will?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  bedroom  door  half  opened,  and  Clara  in  her 
shabby  morning  dress  glidingly  joined  them. 

"He  doesn't  know,"  said  Albert  to  Clara. 

Clara's  pretty  face  scowled  a  little  as  she  asked 
sharply  and  resentfully : 

"Then  who  does  know?" 

"I  should  ha'  thought  you'd  know,"  said  Edwin. 

"Me!  I  like  that!  She  hasn't  spoken  to  me  for 
months,  has  she,  Albert?  And  she  was  always  fright- 
fully close  about  all  these  things." 

"About  what  things?" 

"Well,  you  know." 

It  was  a  fact.  Auntie  Hamps  had  never  discussed 
her  own  finance,  or  her  testamentary  dispositions,  with 
anybody.  And  nobody  had  ever  dared  to  mention  such 
subjects  to  her. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  ask  her?"  said  Clara. 
"Albert  thinks  you  ought." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Edwin,  with  curt  disdain. 

"Well,  then  I  shall,"  Albert  decided. 

"So  long  as  you  don't  do  it  while  I'm  there !"  Edwin 


452  THESE  TWAIN 

said  menacingly.  "If  you  want  to  ask  people  about 
their  wills  you  ought  to  ask  them  before  they're  ac- 
tually dying.  Can't  you  see  you  can't  worry  her  about 
her  will  now?" 

He  was  intensely  disgusted.  He  thought  of  Mrs. 
Hamps's  bed,  and  of  Tertius  Ingpen's  bed,  and  of  the 
woman  at  dead  of  night  in  Ingpen's  room,  and  of  Min- 
nie's case ;  and  the  base  insensibility  of  Albert  and 
Clara  made  him  feel  sick.  He  wondered  whether  any 
occasion  would  ever  have  solemnity  enough  for  them 
to  make  them  behave  with  some  distinction,  some  grand- 
eur. For  himself,  if  he  could  have  secured  a  fortune 
by  breathing  one  business  word  to  Auntie  Hamps  just 
then,  he  would  have  let  the  fortune  go. 

"There's  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  Clara  murmured. 

In  the  glance  of  both  Clara  and  Albert  Edwin  saw 
hatred  and  envy.  Clara  especially  had  never  forgiven 
him  for  preventing  their  father  from  pouring  money 
into  that  sieve,  her  husband,  nor  for  Hilda's  wounding 
tongue,  nor  for  his  worldly  success.  And  they  both 
suspected  that  either  Maggie  or  Auntie  Hamps  had 
told  him  of  Albert's  default  in  the  payment  of  interest, 
and  so  fear  was  added  to  their  hatred  and  envy. 

They  all  entered  the  bedroom,  the  children  having 
been  left  alone  only  a  few  seconds.  Rupert,  wearing 
a  new  blue  overcoat  with  gilt  buttons,  had  partially 
scrambled  on  to  the  bed;  the  pale  veiled  hands  of 
Auntie  Hamps  could  be  seen  round  his  right  hand; 
Rupert  had  grown  enormous,  and  had  already  utterly 
forgotten  the  time  when  he  was  two  years  old.  The 
others,  equally  altered,  stood  two  on  either  side  of  the 
bed, — Bert  and  young  Clara  to  the  right,  and  Amy  and 
Lucy  to  the  left.  Lucy  was  crying  and  Amy  was  be- 
nignantly  wiping  her  eyes.  Bert,  a  great  lump  of  a  boy, 
was  to  leave  school  at  Christmas,  but  he  was  still  ranked 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  453 

with  the  other  children  as  a  child.  Young  Clara  sharply 
and  Bert  heavily  turned  round  to  witness  the  entrance 
of  their  elders. 

"Oh !    Here's  Uncle  Edwin !" 

"Edwin!" 

"Yes,  Auntie!" 

The  moral  values  of  the  room  were  instantly  changed 
by  the  tone  in  which  Auntie  Hamps  had  murmured 
"Edwin."  All  the  Benbows  knew,  and  Edwin  himself 
knew,  that  a  personage  of  supreme  importance  in 
Auntie  Hamps's  eyes  had  come  into  the  scene.  The 
Benbows  became  secondary,  and  even  Auntie  Hamps's 
grasp  of  Rupert's  hand  loosened,  and,  having  already 
kissed  her,  the  child  slipped  off  the  bed.  Edwin  ap- 
proached, and.  over  the  heads  of  the  children,  and  be- 
tween the  great  darkening  curtains,  he  could  at  last 
see  the  face  of  the  dying  woman  like  a  senile  doll's  face 
amid  the  confusion  of  wrappings  and  bedclothes.  The 
deepset  eyes  seemed  to  burn  beneath  the  white  fore- 
head and  sparse  grey  hair;  the  cheeks,  still  rounded, 
were  highly  flushed  over  a  very  small  part  of  their 
surface ;  the  mouth,  always  open,  was  drawn  in,  and  the 
chin,  still  rounded  like  the  cheeks,  protruded.  The 
manner  of  Auntie  Hamps's  noisy  breathing,  like  the 
puzzled  gaze  of  her  eyes,  indicated  apprehension  of  the 
profoundest,  acutest  sort. 

"Eh!"  said  she,  in  a  somewhat  falsetto  voice,  jerky 
and  excessively  feeble.  "I  thought — I'd — lost  you." 
Her  hand  was  groping1  about. 

"No,  no,"  said  Edwin,  leaning  over  between  young 
Clara  and  Rupert. 

"She's  feeling  for  your  hand,  Edwin,"  said  Clara. 

He  quickly  took  her  hot,  brittle  fingers ;  they  seemed 
to  cling  to  his  for  essential  support. 

"Have   you — been   to   the   works?"   Auntie   Hamps 


454  THESE  TWAIN 

asked  the  question  as  though  the  answer  to  it  would 
end  all  trouble. 

"No,"  he  said.     "Not  yet." 

"Eh !  That's  right !  That's  right !"  she  murmured, 
apparently  much  impressed  by  a  new  proof  of  Edwin's 
wisdom. 

"I've  had  a  sleep." 

"What?" 

"I've  been  having  a  sleep,"  he  repeated  more  loudly. 

"Eh!  That's  right!  That's  right.  ...  I'm  so 
glad — the  children  have  been  to  see  me.  .  .  .  Amy — 
did  you  kiss  me?"  Auntie  Hamps  looked  at  Amy  hard, 
as  if  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,  Auntie." 

And  then  Amy  began  to  cry. 

"Better  take  them  away,"  Edwin  suggested  aside  to 
Albert.  "It's  as  much  as  she  can  stand.  The  par- 
son's only  just  gone,  you  know." 

Albert,  obedient,  gave  the  word  of  command,  and 
the  room  was  full  of  movement. 

"Eh,  children — children!"  Auntie  Hamps  appealed. 

Everybody  stood  stockstill,  gazing  attendant. 

"Eh,  children,  bless  you  all  for  coming.  If  you 
grow  up — as  good  as  your  mother — it's  all  I  ask — all 
I  ask.  .  .  .  Your  mother  and  I — have  never  had  a 
cross  word — have  we,  mother?" 

"No,  auntie,"  said  Clara,  with  a  sweet,  touching 
smile  that  accentuated  the  fragile  charm  of  her  face. 

"Never — since  mother  was — as  tiny  as  you.  are." 

Auntie  Hamps  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  during  a  few 
strained  breaths,  and  then  smiled  for  an  instant  at  the 
departing  children,  who  filed  out  of  the  room.  Rupert 
loitered  behind,  gazing  at  his  mother.  The  mere  con- 
trast between  the  infant  so  healthy  and  the  dying  old 
woman  was  pathetic  to  Edwin.  Clara,  with  an  exquisite 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  455 

reassuring  gesture  and  smile  picked  up  the  stout  Ru- 
pert and  kissed  him  and  carried  him  to  the  door,  while 
Auntie  Hamps  looked  at  mother  and  son,  ecstatic. 

"Edwin!" 

"Yes,  Auntie?" 

They  were  alone  now.  She  had  not  loosed  his  hand. 
Her  voice  was  very  faint,  and  he  bent  over  her  still 
lower  in  the  alcove  of  the  curtains,  which  seemed  to 
stretch  very  high  above  them. 

"Have  you  heard  from  Hilda?" 

"Not  yet.    By  the  second  post,  perhaps." 

"It's  about  George's  eyes — isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"She's  done  quite  right — quite  right.  It's  just — 
like  Hilda.  I  do  hope — and  pray — the  boy's  eyesight 
— is  safe." 

"Oh  yes !"  said  Edwin.    "Safe  enough." 

"You  really  think  so?"  She  had  the  air  of  hanging 
on  his  words. 

He  nodded. 

"What  a  blessing!"     She  sighed  deeply  with  relief. 

Edwin  thought: 

"I  believe  her  relations  must  have  been  her  passion." 
And  he  was  impressed  by  the  intensity  of  that  pas- 
sion. 

"Edwin!" 

"Yes,  Auntie." 

"Has— that  girl— gone  yet?" 

"Who?"  he  questioned,  and  added  more  softly: 
"Minnie  d'you  mean?"  His  own  voice  sounded  too 
powerful,  too  healthy  and  dominating,  in  comparison 
with  her  failing  murmurs. 

Auntie  Hamps  nodded.     "Yes — Minnie." 

"Not  yet." 

"She's  going?" 


456  THESE  TWAIN 

"Yes." 

<eBecause  I  can't  trust — Maggie — to  see  to  it." 

"I'll  see  to  it." 

"Has  she  done — the  silvers — d'you  know?" 

"She's  doing  them,"  answered  Edwin,  who  thought  it 
would  be  best  to  carry  out  the  deception  with  artistic 
completeness. 

"She  needn't  have  her  dinner  before  she  goes." 

"No?" 

"No."  Auntie  Hamps's  face  and  tone  hardened. 
"Why  should  she?" 

"All  right." 

"And  if  she  asks — for  her  wages — tell  her — I  say 
there's  nothing  due — under  the  circumstances." 

"All  right,  Auntie,"  Edwin  agreed,  desperate. 

Maggie,  followed  by  Clara,  softly  entered  the  room. 
Auntie  Hamps  glanced  at  them  with  a  certain  cau- 
tious suspicion,  as  though  one  or  other  of  them  was 
capable  of  thwarting  her  in  the  matter  of  Minnie. 
Then  her  eyes  closed,  and  Edwin  was  aware  of  a  slack- 
ening of  her  hold  on  his  hand.  The  doctor,  who  called 
half  an  hour  later,  said  that  she  might  never  speak 
again,  and  she  never  did.  Her  last  conscious  moments 
were  moments  of  satisfaction. 

Edwin  slowly  released  his  hand. 

"Where's  Albert?"  he  asked  Clara,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something. 

"He's  taking  the  children  home,  and  then  he's  going 
to  the  works.  He  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago.  There's 
a  dreadful  upset  there." 

"I  suppose  there  is,"  said  Edwin,  who  had  forgotten 
that  the  fly-wheel  accident  must  have  almost  brought 
Albert's  manufactory  to  a  standstill.  And  he  won- 
dered whether  it  was  the  family  instinct,  or  anxiety 
about  Auntie  Hamps's  will,  that  had  caused  Albert  to 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  457 

absent  himself  from  business  on  such  a  critical  morn- 
ing. 

"I  ought  to  go  too,"  he  muttered,  as  a  full  picture 
of  a  lithographic  establishment  masterless  swept  into 
his  mind. 

"Have  you  telegraphed  to  Hilda?"  Clara  demanded. 

"No." 

"Haven't  you !" 

"What's  the  use?" 

"Well,  I  should  have  thought  you  would." 

"Oh,  no!"  he  said,  falsely  mild.  "I  shall  write." 
He  was  immensely  glad  that  Hilda  was  not  present  in 
the  house  to  complicate  still  further  the  human  equa- 
tion. 

Maggie  was  silently  examining  the  face  obscured  in 
the  gloom  of  the  curtains. 

Instead  of  remaining  late  that  night  at  the  works, 
Edwin  came  back  to  the  house  before  six  o'clock.  He 
had  had  word  that  the  condition  of  Tertius  Ingpen 
was  still  unchanged.  Clara  had  gone  home  to  see  to 
her  children's  evening  meal.  Maggie  sat  alone  in  the 
darkened  bedroom,  where  Auntie  Hamps,  her  features 
a  mere  pale  blur  between  the  over-arching  curtains, 
still  withheld  the  secret  of  her  soul's  reality  from  the 
world.  Even  in  the  final  unconsciousness  there  was 
something  grandiose  which  lingered  from  her  crown- 
ing magnificent  deceptions  and  obstinate  effort  to  safe- 
guard the  structure  of  society.  The  sublime  obstinacy 
of  the  woman  had  transformed  hypocrisy  into  a  virtue, 
and  not  the  imminence  of  the  infinite  unknown  had 
sufficed  to  make  her  apostate  to  the  steadfast  prin- 
ciples of  her  mortal  career. 

"What  about  to-night?"  Edwin  asked. 

"Oh!     Clara  and  I  will  manage." 

There  was   a  tap  at  the   door.     Edwin  opened  it. 


458  THESE  TWAIN 

Minnie,  abashed  but  already  taking  courage,  stood  there 
blinking  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "Ah !"  he  breathed. 
Hilda's  scrawling  caligraphy  was  on  the  envelope. 

The  letter  read:  "Darling  boy.  George  has  influ- 
enza, Charlie  says.  Temp.  10£  anyway.  So  of  course 
he  can't  go  out  to-morrow.  I  knew  this  morning  there 
was  something  wrong  with  him.  Janet  and  Charlie 
send  their  love.  Your  ever  loving  wife,  Hilda." 

He  was  exceedingly  uplifted  and  happy  and  ex- 
hausted. Hilda's  handwriting  moved  him.  The  whole 
missive  was  like  a  personal  emanation  from  her.  It 
lived  with  her  vitality.  It  fought  for  the  mastery  of 
the  household  interior  against  the  mysterious,  far- 
reaching  spell  of  the  dying  woman.  "Your  loving  wife." 
Never  before,  during  their  marriage,  had  she  written 
a  phrase  so  comforting  and  exciting.  He  thought: 
"My  faith  in  her  is  never  worthy  of  her."  And  his 
faith  leaped  up  and  became  worthy  of  her. 

"George  has  got  influenza,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"George !  But  influenza's  very  serious  for  him,  isn't 
it?"  Maggie  showed  alarm. 

"Why  should  it  be?" 

"Considering  he  nearly  died  of  it  at  Orgreaves' !" 

"Oh!    Then!  .  .  .  He'll  be  all  right." 

But  Maggie  had  put  fear  into  Edwin, — a  supersti- 
tious fear.  Influenza  indeed  might  be  serious  for 
George.  Suppose  he  died  of  it.  People  did  die  of 
influenza.  Auntie  Hamps — Tertius  Ingpen — and  now 
George!  .  .  .  All  these  anxieties  mingling  with  his 
joy  in  the  thought  of  Hilda!  And  all  the  brooding 
rooms  of  the  house  waiting  in  light  or  in  darkness  for 
a  decisive  event! 

"I  must  go  and  lie  down,"  he  said.  He  could  con- 
tain no  more  sensations. 

"Do,"  said  Maggie. 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  459 


IV 


At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Auntie  Hamps's 
funeral,  a  procession  consisting  of  the  following  people 
moved  out  of  the  small,  stuffy  dining-room  of  her  house 
across  the  lobby  into  the  drawing-room: — the  Rev. 
Christian  Flowerdew,  the  Rev.  Guy  Cliff e  (second  min- 
ister), the  aged  Reverend  Josiah  Higginbotham  (super- 
numerary minister),  the  chapel  and  the  circuit  stew- 
ards, the  doctor,  Edwin,  Maggie,  Clara,  Bert  and 
young  Clara  (being  respectively  the  eldest  nephew  and 
the  eldest  niece  of  the  deceased),  and  finally  Albert 
Benbow;  Albert  came  last  because  he  had  constituted 
himself  the  marshal  of  the  ceremonies.  In  the  drawing- 
room  the  coffin  with  its  hideous  brass  plate  and  handles 
lay  upon  two  chairs,  and  was  covered  with  white 
wreaths.  At  the  head  of  the  coffin  was  placed  a  small 
table  with  a  white  cloth;  on  the  cloth  a  large  inlaid 
box  (in  which  Auntie  Hamps  had  kept  odd  photo- 
graphs), and  on  the  box  a  black  book.  The  drawn 
blinds  created  a  beautiful  soft  silvery  gloom  which 
solemnised  everything  and  made  even  the  clumsy  carv- 
ing on  the  coffin  seem  like  the  finest  antique  work.  The 
three  ministers  ranged  themselves  round  the  small  ta- 
ble; the  others  stood  in  an  irregular  horseshoe  about 
the  coffin,  nervous,  constrained,  and  in  dread  of  catch- 
ing each  other's  glances.  Mr.  Higginbotham,  by  vir- 
tue of  his  age,  began  to  read  the  service,  and  Auntie 
Hamps  became  "she,"  "her,"  and  "our  sister," — name- 
less. In  the  dining-room  she  had  been  the  paragon  of 
all  excellences, — in  the  drawing-room,  packed  securely 
and  neatly  in  the  coffin,  she  was  a  sinner  snatched  from 
the  consequences  of  sin  by  a  miracle  of  divine  sacri- 
fice. 

The  interment  thus  commenced  was  the  result  of  a 


460  THESE  TWAIN 

compromise  between  two  schools  of  funebrial  manners 
sharply  divergent.  Edwin,  immediately  after  the  de- 
mise, had  become  aware  of  influences  far  stronger  than 
those  which  had  shaped  the  already  half-forgotten  in- 
terment of  old  Darius  Clayhanger  into  a  form  repug- 
nant to  him.  Both  Albert  and  Clara,  but  especially 
Albert,  had  assumed  an  elaborate  funeral,  with  a 
choral  service  at  the  Wesleyan  chapel,  numerous  guests, 
a  superb  procession,  and  a  substantial  and  costly  meal 
in  the  drawing-room  to  conclude.  Edwin  had  at  once 
and  somewhat  domineeringly  decided:  no  guests  what- 
ever outside  the  family,  no  service  at  the  chapel,  every 
rite  reduced  to  its  simplest.  When  asked  why,  he  had 
no  logical  answer.  He  soon  saw  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible not  to  invite  a  minister  and  the  doctor.  He 
yielded,  intimidated  by  the  sacredness  of  custom.  Then 
not  only  the  Wesleyan  chapel  but  its  Sunday  School 
sent  dignified  emissaries,  who  so  little  expected  a  No 
to  their  honorific  suggestions  that  the  No  was  unut- 
tered  and  unutterable.  Certain  other  invitations  were 
agreed  upon.  The  Sunday  School  announced  that  it 
would  "walk,"  and  it  prepared  to  "walk." 

All  the  emissaries  spoke  of  Auntie  Hamps  as  a  saint ; 
they  all  averred  with  restrained  passion  that  her  death 
was  an  absolutely  irreparable  loss  to  the  circuit;  and 
their  apparent  conviction  was  such  that  Edwin's  whole 
estimate  of  Auntie  Hamps  and  of  mankind  was  momen- 
tarily shaken.  Was  it  conceivable  that  none  of  these 
respectable  people  had  arrived  at  the  truth  concern- 
ing Auntie  Hamps?  Had  she  deceived  them  all?  Or 
were  they  simply  rewarding  her  in  memory  for  her 
ceaseless  efforts  on  behalf  of  the  safety  of  society? 

Edwin  stood  like  a  rock  against  a  service  in  the  Wes- 
leyan Chanel.  Clara  cunningly  pointed  out  to  him 
that  the  Wesleyan  Chapel  would  be  heated  for  the  oc- 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  461 

casion,  whereas  the  chapel  at  the  cemetery,  where 
scores  of  persons  had  caught  their  deaths  in  the  few 
years  of  its  existence,  was  never  heated.  His  reply 
showed  genius.  He  would  have  the  service  at  the 
house  itself.  The  decision  of  the  chief  mourner  might 
be  regretted,  and  was  regretted,  but  none  could  im- 
pugn its  correctitude,  nor  its  social  distinction;  some 
said  approvingly  that  it  was  'just  like'  Edwin. 
Thenceforward  the  arrangements  went  more  smoothly, 
the  only  serious  difficulty  being  about  the  route  to  the 
cemetery.  Edwin  was  met  by  a  saying  that  "the  last 
journey  must  be  the  longest,"  which  meant  that  the 
cortege  must  go  up  St.  Luke's  Square  and  along  the 
Market  Place  past  the  Town  Hall  and  the  Shambles, 
encountering  the  largest  number  of  sightseers,  instead 
of  taking  the  nearest  way  along  Wedgwood  Street. 
Edwin  chose  Wedgwood  Street. 

In  the  discussions,  Maggie  was  neutral,  thus  losing 
part  of  the  very  little  prestige  which  she  possessed. 
Clara  and  Albert  considered  Edwin  to  be  excessively 
high-handed.  But  they  were  remarkably  moderate  in 
criticism,  for  the  reason  that  no  will  had  been  found. 
Maggie  and  Clara  had  searched  the  most  secret  places 
of  the  house  for  a  will,  in  vain.  All  that  they  had 
found  was  a  brass  and  copper  paper-knife  wrapped  in 
tissue-paper  and  labelled  "For  Edwin,  with  Auntie's 
love,"  and  a  set  of  tortoise-shell  combs  equally  wrapped 
in  tissue-paper  and  labelled  "For  Maggie,  with  Auntie's 
love."  Naught  for  Clara !  Naught  for  the  chicks. 

Albert  (who  did  all  the  running  about)  had  been  to 
see  Mr.  Julian  Pidduck,  the  Wesleyan  solicitor,  who 
had  a  pew  at  the  back  of  the  chapel  and  was  famous 
for  invariably  arriving  at  morning  service  half  an 
hour  late.  Mr.  Pidduck  knew  of  no  will.  Albert  had 
also  been  to  the  Bank — that  is  to  say,  the  Bank,  at  the 


462  THESE  TWAIN 

top  of  St.  Luke's  Square,  whose  former  manager  had 
been  a  buttress  of  Wesleyanism.  The  new  manager 
(after  nearly  eight  years  he  was  still  called  the  "new" 
manager,  because  the  previous  manager,  old  Lovatt, 
had  been  in  control  for  nearly  thirty  years),  Mr. 
Breeze,  was  ill  upstairs  on  the  residential  floor  with 
one  of  his  periodic  attacks  of  boils;  the  cashier,  how- 
ever, had  told  Albert  that  certain  securities,  but  no 
testament,  were  deposited  at  the  Bank;  he  had  offered 
to  produce  the  securities,  but  only  to  Edwin,  as  the 
nearest  relative.  Albert  had  then  secretly  looked  up 
the  pages  entitled  "Intestates'  Estates"  in  Whitaker's 
Almanac  and  had  discovered  that  whereas  Auntie 
Hamps  being  intestate,  her  personal  property  would 
be  divided  equally  between  Edwin,  Maggie,  and  Clara, 
her  real  property  would  go  entirely  to  Edwin.  (Ed- 
win also  had  secretly  looked  up  the  same  pages.) 
This  gross  injustice  nearly  turned  Albert  from  a  Tory 
into  a  Land  Laws  reformer.  It  accounted  for  the 
comparative  submissiveness  of  Clara  and  Albert  before 
Edwin's  arrogance  as  the  arbiter  of  funerals.  They 
hoped  that,  if  he  was  humoured,  he  might  forego  his 
rights.  They  could  not  credit,  and  Edwin  maliciously 
did  not  tell  them,  that  no  matter  what  they  did  he 
was  incapable  of  insisting  on  such  rights. 

While  the  ministers  succeeded  each  other  in  the 
conduct  of  the  service,  each  after  his  different  manner, 
Edwin  scrutinised  the  coffin,  and  the  wreaths,  and  the 
cards  inscribed  with  mournful  ecstatic  affection  that 
nestled  amid  the  flowers,  and  the  faces  of  the  audience, 
and  his  thought  was:  "This  will  soon  be  over  now!" 
Beneath  his  gloomy  and  wearied  expression  he  was 
unhappy,  but  rather  hopeful  and  buoyant,  looking  for- 
ward to  approaching  felicity.  His  reflections  upon 
the  career  of  Auntie  Hamps  were  kind,  and  utterly 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  463 

uncritical;  he  wondered  what  her  spirit  was  doing  in 
that  moment;  the  mystery  ennobled  his  mind.  Yet  he 
wondered  also  whether  the  ministers  believed  all  they 
were  saying,  why  the  superintendent  minister  read  so 
well  and  prayed  with  such  a  lack  of  distinction,  how 
much  the  wreaths  cost,  whether  the  Sunday  School 
deputation  had  silently  arrived  in  the  street,  and  why 
men  in  overcoats  and  hatless  looked  so  grotesque  in  a 
room,  and  why  when  men  and  women  were  assembled 
on  a  formal  occasion  the  women  always  clung  to- 
gether. 

Probing  his  left-hand  pocket,  he  felt  a  letter.  He 
had  received  it  that  morning  from  Hilda.  George 
was  progressing  very  well,  and  Charlie  Orgreave  had 
actually  brought  the  oculist  with  his  apparatus  to 
see  him  at  Charlie's  house.  Charlie  would  always  do 
impossibilities  for  Hilda.  It  was  Charlie  who  had 
once  saved  George's  life — so  Hilda  was  convinced. 
The  oculist  had  said  that  George's  vision  was  normal, 
and  that  he  must  not  wear  glasses,  but  that  on  oc- 
count  of  a  slight  weakness  he  ought  to  wear  a  shade 
at  night  in  rooms  which  were  lighted  from  the  top. 
In  a  few  days  Hilda  and  George  would  return.  Edwin 
anticipated  their  arrival  with  an  impatience  almost 
gleeful,  so  anxious  was  he  to  begin  the  new  life  with 
Hilda.  Her  letters  had  steadily  excited  him.  He 
pictured  the  intimacies  of  their  reunion.  He  saw  her 
ideally.  His  mind  rose  to  the  finest  manifestations  of 
her  individuality,  and  the  inconveniences  of  that  indi- 
viduality grew  negligible.  Withal,  he  was  relieved  that 
George's  illness  had  kept  her  out  of  Bursley  during  the 
illness,  death,  and  burial  of  Auntie  Hamps.  Had  she 
been  there,  he  would  have  had  three  persons  to  man- 
age instead  of  two,  and  he  could  not  have  asserted 
himself  with  the  same  freedom. 


464  THESE  TWAIN 

And  then  there  was  a  sound  of  sobbing  outside  the 
door.  Minnie,  sharing  humbly  but  obstinately  in  the 
service  according  to  her  station,  had  broken  down  in 
irrational  grief  at  the  funeral  of  the  woman  whose 
dying  words  amounted  to  an  order  for  her  execution. 
Edwin,  though  touched,  could  have  smiled ;  and  he  felt 
abashed  before  the  lofty  and  incomprehensible  mar- 
vels of  human  nature.  Several  outraged  bent  heads 
twisted  round  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  but  the 
minister  intrepidly  continued  with  the  final  prayer. 
Maggie  slipped  out,  the  door  closed,  and  the  sound  of 
sobbing  receded. 

After  the  benediction  Albert  resumed  full  activity, 
while  the  remainder  of  the  company  stared  and  cleared 
their  throats  without  exchanging  a  word.  The  news 
that  the  hearse  and  coaches  had  not  arrived  helped 
them  to  talk  a  little.  The  fault  was  not  that  of  the 
undertaker,  but  Edwin's.  The  service  had  finished  too 
soon,  because  in  response  to  Mr.  Flowerdew's  official 
question:  "How  much  time  do  you  give  me?"  he  had 
replied :  "Oh !  A  quarter  of  an  hour,"  whereas  Albert 
the  organiser  had  calculated  upon  half  an  hour.  The 
representatives  of  the  Sunday  School  were  already 
lined  up  on  the  pavement  and  on  the  opposite  pave- 
ment and  in  the  roadway  were  knots  of  ragged,  cal- 
lously inquisitive  spectators.  The  vehicles  could  at 
length  be  described  on  the  brow  of  Church  Street. 
They  descended  the  slope  in  haste.  The  four  mutes 
nipped  down  with  agility  from  the  hammer  cloths,  hung 
their  greasy  top-hats  on  the  ornamental  spikes  of  the 
hearse,  and  sneaked  grimly  into  the  house.  In  a  sec- 
ond the  flowers  were  shifted  from  the  coffin,  and  with 
startling  accomplished  swiftness  the  coffin  was  darted 
out  of  the  room  without  its  fraudulent  brass  handles 
even  being  touched,  and  down  the  steps  into  the  hearse, 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  465 

and  the  flowers  replaced.  The  one  hitch  was  due  to 
Edwin  attempting  to  get  into  the  first  coach  instead  of 
waiting  for  the  last  one.  Albert,  putting  on  his  new 
black  gloves,  checked  him.  The  ministers  and  the 
doctor  had  to  go  first,  the  chapel  officials  next,  and 
the  chief  mourners — Edwin,  Albert,  and  Bert — had 
the  third  coach.  The  women  stayed  behind  at  the 
door,  frowning  at  the  murmurous  crowd  of  shabby 
idlers.  Albert  gave  a  supreme  glance  at  the  vehicles 
and  the  walkers,  made  a  signal,  and  joined  Edwin 
and  Bert  in  the  last  coach,  buttoning  his  left  hand 
glove.  Edwin  would  only  hold  his  gloves  in  his  hand. 
The  cortege  moved.  Rain  was  threatening,  and  the 
street  was  muddy. 

At  the  cemetery  it  was  raining,  and  the  walkers 
made  a  string  of  glistening  umbrellas ;  only  the  paid 
mutes  had  no  umbrellas.  Near  the  gates,  under  an 
umbrella,  stood  a  man  with  a  protruding  chin  and  a 
wiry  grey  moustache.  He  came  straight  to  Edwin  and 
shook  hands.  It  was  Mr.  Breeze,  the  Bank  manager. 
His  neck,  enveloped  in  a  white  muffler,  showed  a  large 
excrescence  behind,  and  he  kept  his  head  very  care- 
fully in  one  position. 

He  said,  in  his  defiant  voice: 

"I  only  had  the  news  this  morning,  and  I  felt  that 
I  should  pay  the  last  tribute  of  respect  to  the  de- 
ceased. I  had  known  her  in  business  and  privately  for 
many  years." 

His  greeting  of  Albert  was  extremely  reserved,  and 
Albert  showed  him  a  meek  face.  Albert's  overdraft 
impaired  the  cordiality  of  their  relations. 

"Sorry  to  hear  you've  got  your  old  complaint !"  said 
Edwin,  astounded  at  this  act  of  presence  by  the  ter- 
rible bank-manager. 

Vehicles,  by  some  municipal  caprice,  were  forbidden 


466  THESE  TWAIN 

to  enter  the  cemetery.  And  in  the  rain,  between  the 
stone-perpetuated  great  names  of  the  town's  history 
— the  Boultons,  the  Lawtons,  the  Blackshaws,  the 
Beardmores,  the  Dunns,  the  Longsons,  the  Hulmes, 
the  Suttons,  the  Greenes,  the  Gardiners,  the  Calverts, 
the  Dawsons,  the  Brindleys,  the  Baineses,  and  the 
Woods — the  long  procession  preceded  by  Auntie  Hamps 
tramped  for  a  third  of  a  mile  along  the  asphalted 
path  winding  past  the  chapel  to  the  graveside.  And 
all  the  way  Mr.  Breeze,  between  Edwin  and  Albert, 
with  Bert  a  yard  to  the  rear,  talked  about  boils,  and 
Edwin  said  "Yes"  and  "No,"  and  Albert  said  nothing. 
And  at  the  graveside  the  three  ministers  removed  their 
flat  round  hats  and  put  on  skull-caps  while  skilfully 
holding  their  umbrellas  aloft. 

And  while  Mr.  Elowerdew  was  reading  from  a  little 
book  in  the  midst  of  the  large  encircling  bare-headed 
crowd  with  umbrellas,  and  the  gravedigger  with  abso- 
lute precision  accompanied  his  words  with  three  castings 
of  earth  into  the  hollow  of  the  grave,  Edwin  scanned  an 
adjoining  tombstone,  which  marked  the  family  vault 
of  Isaac  Plant,  a  renowned  citizen.  He  read,  chased 
in  gilt  letters  on  the  Aberdeen  granite,  the  following 
lines : 

"Sacre£  to  the  memory  of  Adelaide  Susan,  wife  of 
Isaac  Plant,  died  27th  June,  1886,  aged  47  years. 
And  of  Mary,  wife  of  Isaac  Plant,  died  llth  Decem- 
ber, 1890,  aged  33  years.  And  of  Effie  Harriet,  wife 
of  Isaac  Plant,  died  9th  December,  1893,  aged  27 
years.  The  Flower  Fadeth.  And  of  Isaac  Plant, 
died  9th  February,  1894,  aged  79  years.  I  know  that 
my  Redeemer  Liveth."  And  the  passionate  career  of 
the  aged  and  always  respectable  rip  seemed  to  Edwin 
to  have  been  a  wondrous  thing.  The  love  of  life  was  in 
Isaac  Plant.  He  had  risen  above  death  again  and 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  467 

again.  After  having  detested  him,  Edwin  now  liked 
him  on  the  tombstone. 

And  even  in  that  hilly  and  bleak  burial  ground, 
with  melancholy  sepulchral  parties  and  white  wind- 
blown surplices  dotted  about  the  sodden  slopes,  and 
the  stiff  antipathetic  multitude  around  the  pit  which 
held  Auntie  Hamps,  and  the  terrible  seared,  harsh, 
grey-and-brown  industrial  landscape  of  the  great  smok- 
ing amphitheatre  below,  Edwin  felt  happy  in  the 
sensation  of  being  alive  and  of  having  to  contend  with 
circumstance.  He  was  inspired  by  the  legend  of  Isaac 
Plant  and  of  Auntie  Hamps,  who  in  very  different 
ways  had  intensely  lived.  And  he  thought  in  the 
same  mood  of  Tertius  Ingpen,  who  was  now  under- 
stood to  be  past  hope.  If  he  died, — well,  he  also  had 
intensely  lived!  And  he  thought  too  of  Hilda,  whose 
terrific  vitality  of  emotion  had  caused  him  such  hours 
of  apprehension  and  exasperation.  He  exulted  in  all 
those  hours.  It  seemed  almost  a  pity  that,  by  reason 
of  his  new-found  understanding  of  Hilda,  such  hours 
would  not  recur.  His  heart  flew  impatiently  forward 
into  the  future,  to  take  up  existence  with  her  again. 

When  the  ministers  pocketed  their  skull-caps  and 
resumed  their  hats,  everybody  except  Edwin  appeared 
to  feel  relief  in  turning  away  from  the  grave.  Faces 
brightened;  footsteps  were  more  alert.  In  the  draw- 
ing-room Edwin  had  thought:  "It  will  soon  be  over," 
and  every  face  near  him  was  saying,  "It  is  over" ;  but 
now  that  it  was  over  Edwin  had  a  pang  of  depression 
at  the  eagerness  with  which  all  the  mourners  aban- 
doned Auntie  Hamps  to  her  strange  and  desolate  grave 
amid  the  sinister  population  of  corpses. 

He  lingered,  glancing  about.  Mr.  Breeze  also  lin- 
gered, and  then  in  his  downright  manner  squarely  ap- 
proached Edwin. 


468  THESE  TWAIN 

"I'll  walk  down  with  ye  to  the  gates,"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  Edwin. 

Mr.  Breeze  moved  his  head  round  with  care.  Their 
umbrellas  touched.  In  front  of  them  the  broken  units 
of  a  procession  tramped  in  disorder,  chatting. 

"I've  got  that  will  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Breeze  in  a 
confidential  tone. 

"What  will?" 

"Mrs.  Hamps's." 

"But  your  cashier  said  there  was  no  will  at  your 
place !" 

"My  cashier  doesn't  know  everything,"  remarked 
Mr.  Breeze.  And  in  his  voice  was  the  satisfied  grimness 
of  a  true  native  of  the  district,  and  a  Longshaw  man. 
"Mrs.  Hamps  deposited  her  will  with  me  as  much  as  a 
friend  as  anything  else.  The  fact  is  I  had  it  in  my 
private  safe.  I  should  have  called  with  it  this  morning^ 
but  I  knew  that  you'd  be  busy,  and  what's  more  I 
can't  go  paying  calls  of  a  morning.  Here  it  is." 

Mr.  Breeze  drew  an  endorsed  foolscap  envelope  from 
the  breast  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  and  handed  it  to 
Edwin. 

"Thanks,"  said  Edwin  very  curtly.  He  could  be  as 
native  as  any  native.  But  beneath  the  careful  imper- 
turbability of  his  demeanour  he  was  not  unagitated. 

"I've  got  a  receipt  for  you  to  sign,"  said  Mr.  Breeze. 
"It's  slipped  into  the  envelope.  Here's  an  ink-pencil." 

Edwin  comprehended  that  he  must  stand  still  in  the 
rain  and  sign  a  receipt  for  the  will  as  best  he  could 
under  an  umbrella.  He  complied.  Mr.  Breeze  said  no 
more. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Breeze,"  said  Edwin  at  the  gates. 

"Good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Clayhanger." 

The  coaches  trotted  down  the  first  part  of  the  hill 
into  Bursley  but  as  soon  as  the  road  became  a  street, 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  469 

with  observant  houses  on  either  side,  the  pace  was 
reduced  to  a  proper  solemnity.  Edwin  was  amused 
and  even  uplifted  by  the  thought  of  the  will  in  his 
pocket;  his  own  curiosity  concerning  it  diverted  him; 
he  anticipated  complications  with  a  light  heart.  To 
Albert  he  said  nothing  on  the  subject,  which  somehow 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  force  bluntly  into  the 
conversation.  Albert  talked  about  his  misfortunes  at 
the  works,  including  the  last  straw  of  the  engine  acci- 
dent; and  all  the  time  he  was  vaguely  indicating  reas- 
ons— the  presence  of  Bert  in  the  carriage  necessitated 
reticence — for  his  default  in  the  interest-paying  to 
Maggie.  At  intervals  he  gave  out  that  he  was  ex- 
pecting much  from  Bert,  who  at  the  New  Year  was 
to  leave  school  for  the  works — and  Bert  taciturn  be- 
hind his  spectacles  had  to  seem  loyal,  earnest,  and 
promising. 

As  they  approached  the  Clowes  Hospital  Edwin 
saw  a  nurse  in  a  bonnet,  white  bow,  and  fluent  blue 
robe  emerging  from  the  shrubbery  and  putting  up  an 
umbrella.  She  looked  delightful, — at  once  modest  and 
piquant,  until  he  saw  that  she  was  the  night-nurse ;  and 
even  then  she  still  looked  delightful.  He  thought: 
"I'd  no  idea  she  could  look  like  that!"  and  began  to 
admit  to  himself  that  perhaps  in  his  encounters  with 
her  in  the  obscurity  of  the  night  he  had  not  envisaged 
the  whole  of  her  personality.  Involuntarily  he  leaned 
forward.  Her  eyes  were  scintillant  and  active,  and 
they  caught  his.  He  saluted ;  she  bowed,  with  a  most 
inviting,  challenging  and  human  smile. 

"There's  Nurse  Faulkner!"  he  exclaimed  to  Albert. 
"I  must  just  ask  her  how  Ingpen  is.  I  haven't  heard 
to-day."  He  made  as  if  to  lean  out  of  the  window. 

"But  you  can't  stop  the  procession!"  Albert  pro- 
tested in  horror,  unable  to  conceive  such  an  enormity. 


470  THESE  TWAIN 

"I'll  just   slip   out!"   said  Edwin,   guiltily. 

He  spoke  to  the  coachman  and  the  coach  halted. 

In  an  instant  he  was  on  the  pavement. 

"Drive  on,"  he  instructed  the  coachman,  and  to  the 
outraged  Albert:  "I'll  walk  down." 

Nurse  Faulkner,  apparently  flattered  by  the  proof 
of  her  attractiveness,  stopped  and  smiled  upon  the 
visitor.  She  had  a  letter  in  one  hand. 

"Good  afternoon,  nurse." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Clayhanger.  I'm  just  going  out 
for  my  morning  walk  before  breakfast,"  said  she. 

She  had  dimples.  These  dimples  quite  ignored  Ed- 
win's mourning  and  the  fact  that  he  had  quitted  a 
funeral  in  order  to.  speak  to  her. 

"How  is  Mr.  Ingpen  to-day?"  Edwin  asked.  He 
could  read  on  the  envelope  in  her  hand  the  words  "The 
Rev." 

She  grew  serious,  and  said  in  a  low,  cheerful  tone: 
"I  think  he's  going  on  pretty  well." 

Edwin  was  startled. 

"D'you  mean  he's  getting  better?" 

"Slowly.  He's  taking  food  more  easily.  He  was 
undoubtedly  better  this  morning.  I  haven't  seen  him 
since,  of  course." 

"But  the  matron  seemed  to  think "  He  stopped, 

for  the  dimples  began  to  reappear. 

"Matron  always  fears  the  worst,  you  know,"  said 
Nurse  Faulkner,  not  without  irony. 

"Does  she?" 

The  matron  had  never  held  out  hope  to  Edwin;  and 
he  had  unquestioningly  accepted  her  opinion.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  the  matron  of  a  hospital 
could  be  led  astray  by  her  instinctive  unconscious  ap- 
petite for  gloom  and  disaster. 

The  nurse  nodded. 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  471 

"Then  you  think  he'll  pull  through?" 

"I'm  pretty  sure  he  will.  But  of  course  I've  not 
seen  the  doctor — I  mean  since  the  first  night." 

"I'm  awfully  glad." 

"His  brother  came  over  from  Darlington  to  see 
him  yesterday  evening,  you  know." 

"Yes.     I  just  missed  him." 

The  nurse  gave  a  little  bow  as  she  moved  up  the 
road. 

"Just  going  to  the  pillar-box,"  she  explained. 
"Dreadful  weather  we're  having!" 

He  left  her,  feeling  that  he  had  made  a  new  ac- 
quaintance. 

"She's  in  love  with  a  parson,  I  bet,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. And  he  had  to  admit  that  she  had  charm — 
when  off  duty. 

The  news  about  Ingpen  filled  him  with  bright  joy. 
Everything  was  going  well.  Hilda  would  soon  be  home ; 
George's  eyes  were  not  seriously  wrong;  the  awful 
funeral  was  over;  and  his  friend  was  out  of  danger — 
marvellously  restored  to  him.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
will.  He  glanced  about  to  see  whether  anybody  of 
importance  was  observing  him.  There  was  nobody. 
The  coaches  were  a  hundred  yards  in  front.  He  drew 
out  the  envelope  containing  the  will,  managed  to  ex- 
tract the  will  from  the  envelope,  and  opened  the  docu- 
ment,— not  very  easily  because  he  was  holding  his  um- 
brella. 

A  small  printed  slip  fluttered  to  the  muddy  pavement. 
He  picked  it  up ;  it  was  a  printed  form  of  attestation 
clause,  seemingly  cut  from  Whitaker's  Almanac: — 
"Signed  by  the  testator  (or  testatrix  as  the  case  may 
be)  in  the  presence  of  us,  both  present  at  the  same 
time,"  etc. 

"She's  got  that  right,  an}'how,"  he  murmured. 


472  THESE  TWAIN 

Then,  walking  along,  he  read  the  will  of  Auntie 
Hamps.  It  was  quickly  spotted  with  raindrops. 

At  the  house  the  blinds  were  drawn  up,  and  the 
women  sedately  cheerful.  Maggie  was  actually  teasing 
Bert  about  his  new  hat,  and  young  Clara,  active  among 
the  preparations  for  tea  for  six,  was  intensely  and 
seriously  proud  at  being  included  in  the  ceremonial 
party  of  adults.  She  did  not  suspect  that  the  adults^ 
themselves  had  a  novel  sensation  of  being  genuinely 
adult,  and  that  the  last  representative  of  the  older 
generation  was  gone,  and  that  this  common  sensa- 
tion drew  them  together  rather  wistfully. 

"Oh!  By  the  way,  there's  a  telegram  for  you," 
said  Maggie,  as  Minnie  left  the  dining-room  after  serv- 
ing the  last  trayful  of  hot  dishes  and  pots. 

Edwin  took  the  telegram.  It  was  from  Hilda,  to  say 
that  she  and  George  would  return  on  the  morrow. 

"But  what  about  the  house  being  cleaned,  and  what 
about  servants?"  cried  Edwin,  affecting,  in  order  to 
conceal  his  pleasure,  an  annoyance  which  he  did  not  in 
the  least  feel. 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Tarns  has  been  looking  after  the  house 
— I  shall  go  round  and  see  her  after  tea.  I've  got 
one  servant  for  Hilda." 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  it,"  said  Ed- 
win, who  was  struck,  by  no  means  for  the  first  time, 
by  the  concealment  which  all  the  women  practised. 

"Didn't  I?"  Maggie  innocently  murmured.  "And 
then  Minnie  can  go  and  help  if  necessary  until  you're 
all  settled  again.  Hadn't  we  better  have  the  gas  lighted 
before  we  begin?" 

And  in  the  warm  cosiness  of  the  small,  ugly,  dining- 
room  shortly  to  be  profaned  by  auctioneers  and  furni- 
ture-removers, amid  the  odours  of  tea  and  hot  tea- 
cakes,  and  surrounded  by  the  family  faces  intimate, 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  473 

beloved,  and  disdained,  Edwin  had  an  exciting  vision 
of  the  new  life  with  Hilda,  and  the  vision  was  shot 
through  with  sharp  flitting  thoughts  of  the  once  gor- 
geous Auntie  Hamps  forlorn  in  the  cemetery  and  al- 
ready passing  into  oblivion. 

After  tea,  immediately  the  children  had  been  sent 
home,  he  said,  self-consciously  to  Albert: 

"I've  got  something  for  you." 

And  offered  the  will.  Maggie  and  Clara  were  up- 
stairs. 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  Auntie's  will.  Breeze  had  it.  He  gave  it  to 
me  in  the  cemetery.  It  seems  he  only  knew  this  morn- 
ing Auntie  was  dead.  I  think  that  was  why  he  came 
up." 

"Well,  I'm !"  Albert  muttered. 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  opened  the  paper. 

Auntie  Hamps  had  made  Edwin  sole  executor,  and 
had  left  all  her  property  in  trust  for  Clara's  children. 
Evidently  she  had  reasoned  that  Edwin  and  Maggie 
had  all  they  needed,  and  that  the  children  of  such  a 
father  as  Albert  could  only  be  effectually  helped  in 
one  way,  which  way  she  had  chosen.  The  will  was 
seven  years  old,  and  the  astounding  thing  was  that 
she  had  drawn  it  herself,  having  probably  copied 
some  of  the  wording  from  some  source  unknown.  It 
was  a  wise  if  a  rather  ruthless  will ;  and  its  provisions, 
like  the  manner  of  making  it,  were  absolutely  charac- 
teristic of  the  testatrix.  Too  mean  to  employ  a  law- 
yer, she  had  yet  had  a  magnificent  gesture  of  gener- 
osity towards  that  Benbow  brood  which  she  adored 
in  her  grandiose  way.  And  further  she  had  been  clever 
enough  not  to  invalidate  the  will  by  some  negligent  in- 
formality. It  was  as  tight  as  if  Julian  Pidduck  him- 
self had  drawn  it. 


474  THESE  TWAIN 

And  she  had  managed  to  put  Albert  in  a  position 
highly  exasperating.  For  he  was  both  very  pleased 
and  very  vexed.  In  slighting  him,  she  had  aggrandized 
his  children. 

"What  of  it?"  he  asked  nervously. 

"It's  all  right  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  said  Ed- 
win, with  a  short  laugh.  And  he  was  sincere,  for  he 
had  no  desire  whatever  to  take  a  share  of  his  aunt's 
modest  wealth.  He  shrank  from  the  trusteeship,  but 
he  knew  that  he  could  not  avoid  it,  and  he  was  getting 
accustomed  to  power  and  dominion.  Albert  would  have 
to  knuckle  down  to  him,  and  Clara  too. 

Maggie  and  Clara  came  back  together  into  the 
room,  noticeably  sisterly.  They  perceived  at  oace 
from  the  men's  faces  that  they  were  in  the  presence 
of  a  historic  event. 

"I  say,  Clary,"  Albert  began;  his  voice  quavered. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  DISCOVEEY 


HILDA  showed  her  smiling,  flattering  face  at  the  door 
of  Edwin's  private  office  at  a  few  minutes  to  one  on 
Saturday  morning,  and  she  said: 

"I  had  to  go  to  the  dressmaker's  after  my  shopping, 
so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  call  for  you."  She  added 
with  deference :  "But  I  can  wait  if  you're  busy." 

True  that  the  question  of  mourning  had  taken  her 
to  the  dressmaker's,  and  that  the  dressmaker  lived  in 
Shawport  Lane,  not  four  minutes  from  the  works ;  but 
such  accidents  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  call,  which, 
being  part  of  a  scheme  of  Hilda's,  would  have  oc- 
curred in  any  case. 

"I'm  ready,"  said  Edwin,  pleased  by  the  vision  of 
his  wife  in  the  stylish  wide-sleeved  black  jacket  and 
black  hat  which  she  had  bought  in  London.  "What 
have  you  got  in  that  parcel?" 

"It's  your  new  office-coat,"  Hilda  replied,  depos- 
iting on  the  desk  the  parcel  which  had  been  partly 
concealed  behind  her  muff.  "I've  mended  the  sleeves." 

"Aha !"  Edwin  lightly  murmured.  "Let's  have  a  look 
at  it." 

His  benevolent  attitude  towards  the  new  office-coat 
surprised  and  charmed  her.  Before  her  journey  to 
London  with  George  he  would  have  jealously  resented 
any  interfering  hand  among  his  apparel,  but  since  her 
return  he  had  been  exquisitely  amenable.  She  thought, 
proud  of  herself: 

475 


476  THESE  TWAIN 

"It's  really  quite  easy  to  manage  him.  I  never  used 
to  go  quite  the  right  way  about  it." 

Her  new  system,  which  was  one  of  the  results  of 
contact  with  London  and  which  had  been  inaugurated 
a  week  earlier  on  the  platform  of  Knype  station  when 
she  stepped  down  from  the  London  train,  consisted 
chiefly  in  smiles,  voice-control,  and  other  devices  to 
make  Edwin  believe  in  any  discussion  that  she  fully 
appreciated  his  point  of  view.  Often  (she  was  startled 
to  find)  this  simulation  had  the  unexpected  result 
of  causing  her  actually  to  appreciate  his  point  of  view. 
Which  was  very  curious. 

London  indeed  had  had  its  effect  on  Hilda.  She 
had  seen  the  Five  Towns  from  a  distance,  and  as  some- 
thing definitely  provincial.  Having  lived  for  years 
at  Brighton,  which  is  almost  a  suburb  of  London,  and 
also  for  a  short  time  in  London  itself,  she  could  not 
think  of  herself  as  a  provincial,  in  the  full  sense  in 
which  Edwin,  for  example,  was  a  provincial.  She  had 
gone  to  London  with  her  son,  not  like  a  staring  and  in- 
timidated provincial,  but  with  the  confidence  of  an  ini- 
tiate returning  to  the  scene  of  initiation.  And  once 
she  was  there,  all  her  old  condescensions  towards  the 
dirty  and  primitive  ingenuous  Five  Towns  had  very 
quickly  revived.  She  discovered  Charlie  Orgreave,  the 
fairly  successful  doctor  in  Ealing  (a  suburb  rich  in 
doctors),  to  be  the  perfect  Londoner,  and  Janet,  no 
longer  useless  and  forlorn,  scarcely  less  so.  These  two, 
indeed,  had  the  air  of  having  at  length  reached  their 
proper  home  after  being  born  in  exile.  The  same  was 
true  of  Johnnie  Orgreave,  now  safely  through  the  mat- 
rimonial court  and  married  to  his  blonde  Adela  (for- 
merly the  ripping  Mrs.  Chris  Hamson),  whose  money 
had  bought  him  a  junior  partnership  in  an  important 
architectural  firm  in  Russell  Square.  Johnnie  and 


THE  DISCOVERY  477 

Adela  had  come  over  from  Bedford  Park  to  Ealing 
to  see  Hilda,  and  Hilda  had  dined  with  them  at  Bed- 
ford Park  at  a  table  illuminated  by  crimson-shaded 
night-lights, — a  repast  utterly  different  in  its  appoint- 
ments and  atmosphere  from  anything  conceivable  in 
Trafalgar  Road.  The  current  Five  Towns  notion  of 
Johnnie  and  his  wife  as  two  morally  ruined  creatures 
hiding  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  in  shame  from  an 
outraged  public  opinion,  seemed  merely  comic  in  Ealing 
and  Bedford  Park.  These  people  referred  to  the  Five 
Towns  with  negligent  affection,  but  with  disdain,  as  to 
a  community  that,  with  all  its  good  qualities,  had  not 
yet  emerged  from  barbarism.  They  assumed  that  their 
attitude  was  also  Hilda's,  and  Hilda,  after  a  moment's 
secret  resentment,  had  indeed  made  their  attitude  her 
own.  When  she  mentioned  that  she  hoped  soon  to 
move  Edwin  into  a  country  house,  they  applauded  and 
implied  that  no  other  course  was  possible.  Withal, 
their  respect,  to  say  nothing  of  their  regard,  for  Ed- 
win, the  astute  and  successful  man  of  business,  was  ob- 
vious and  genuine.  The  two  brothers  Orgreave,  amid 
their  possibly  superficial  splendours  of  professional 
men,  hinted  envy  of  the  stability  of  Edwin's  trade  posi- 
tion. And  both  Janet  and  Adela,  shopping  with  Hilda, 
showed  her,  by  those  inflections  and  eyebrow-liftings  of 
which  women  possess  the  secret,  that  the  wife  of  a 
solid  and  generous  husband  had  quite  as  much  economic 
importance  in  London  as  in  the  Five  Towns. 

Thus  when  Hilda  got  into  the  train  at  Euston,  she 
had  in  her  head  a  plan  of  campaign  compared  to 
which  the  schemes  entertained  by  her  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  disastrous  servants  episode  seemed  amateur- 
ish and  incomplete.  And  also  she  was  like  a  return- 
ing adventurer,  carrying  back  to  his  savage  land  the 
sacred  torch  of  civilisation.  She  had  perceived,  as 


478  THESE  TWAIN 

never  before,  the  superior  value  of  the  suave  and  refined 
social  methods  of  the  metropolitan  middle-classes,  com- 
pared with  the  manners  of  the  Five  Towns,  and  it 
seemed  to  her,  in  her  new  enthusiasm  for  the  art  of 
life,  that  if  she  had  ever  had  a  difficulty  with  Edwin, 
her  own  clumsiness  was  to  blame.  She  saw  Edwin  as  an 
instrument  to  be  played  upon,  and  herself  as  a  vir- 
tuoso. In  such  an  attitude  was  necessarily  a  conde- 
scension. Yet  this  condescension  somehow  did  not  in 
the  least  affect  the  tenderness  and  the  fever  of  her 
longing  for  Edwin.  Her  excitement  grew  as  the  train 
passed  across  the  dusky  December  plain  towards  him. 
She  thought  of  the  honesty  of  his  handshake  and  of 
his  wistful  glance.  She  knew  that  he  was  better  than 
any  of  the  people  she  had  left, — either  more  capable,  or 
more  reliable,  or  more  charitable,  or  all  three.  She 
knew  that  most  of  the  people  she  had  left  were  at 
heart  snobs.  "Am  I  getting  a  snob?"  she  asked  her- 
self. She  had  asked  herself  the  question  before.  "I 
don't  care  if  it  is  snobbishness.  I  want  certain  things, 
and  I  will  have  them,  and  they  can  call  it  what  they 
like."  Like  the  majority  of  women,  she  was  incapable 
of  being  frightened  by  the  names  of  her  desires.  She 
might  be  snobbish  in  one  part  of  her,  but  in  another 
she  had  the  fiercest  scorn  for  all  that  Ealing  stood 
for.  And  in  Edwin  she  admired  nothing  more  than 
the  fact  that  success  had  not  modified  his  politics, 
which  were  as  downright  as  they  had  ever  been;  she 
could  not  honestly  say  the  same  for  herself;  and  as- 
suredly the  Orgreaves  could  not  say  the  same  for  them- 
selves. In  politics,  Edwin  was  an  inspiration  to  her. 
And  when  the  train  entered  the  fiery  zone  of  in- 
dustry, and  slackened  speed  amid  the  squalid  twilit 
streets,  and  stopped  at  Knype  station  in  front  of  a 
crowd  of  local  lowering  faces  and  mackintoshed  and 


THE  DISCOVERY  479 

gaitered  forms,  and  the  damp  chill  of  the  Five  Towns 
came  in  through  the  opened  door  of  the  compartment, 
her  heart  fell,  and  she  regretted  the  elegance  of  Eal- 
ing.  But  simultaneously  her  heart  was  beating  with 
ecstatic  expectation.  She  saw  Edwin's  face.  It  was  a 
local  face.  He  wore  mourning.  He  saw  her;  his  eye 
lighted;  his  wistful  smile  appeared.  "Yes,"  she 
thought,  "he  is  the  same  as  my  image  of  him.  He 
is  better  than  any  of  them.  I  am  safe.  What  a 
shame  to  have  left  him  all  alone !  He  was  quite  right 
— there  was  no  need  for  it.  But  I  am  so  impulsive. 
He  must  have  suffered  terribly  with  those  Benbows, 
and  shut  out  of  his  own  house  too."  .  .  .  His  hand 
thrilled  her.  In  the  terrible  sincerity  and  outpouring  of 
her  kiss  she  sought  to  compensate  him  for  all  wrongs 
past  and  future.  Her  joy  in  being  near  him  again  made 
her  tingle.  His  matter-of-fact  calmness  pleased  her. 
She  thought:  "I  know  him,  with  his  matter-of-fact 
calmness !"  "Hello,  kid,"  Edwin  addressed  George  with 
man-to-man  negligence.  "Been  looking  after  your 
mother?"  George  answered  like  a  Londoner.  She 
had  them  side  by  side.  It  was  the  fact  that  George 
had  looked  after  her.  London  had  matured  him;  he 
had  picked  up  a  little  Ealing.  He  was  past  Edwin's 
shoulder.  Indeed  he  was  surprisingly  near  to  being  a 
man.  She  had  both  of  them.  On  the  platform  they 
surrounded  her  with  their  masculine  protection. 
George's  secret  deep  respect  for  Edwin  was  not  hid- 
den from  her. 

And  yet,  all  the  time,  in  her  j  oy,  reliance,  love,  admi- 
ration, eating  him  with  her  eyes,  she  was  condescend- 
ing to  Edwin, — because  she  had  plans  for  his  good. 
She  knew  better  than  he  did  what  would  be  for  his 
good.  And  he  was  a  provincial  and  didn't  suspect  it. 
"My  poor  boy!"  she  had  said  gleefully  in  the  cab, 


480  THESE  TWAIN 

pulling  suddenly  at  a  loose  button  of  the  old  grey 
coat  which  he  wore  surreptitiously  under  his  new  black 
overcoat.  "My  poor  boy,  what  a  state  you  are  in!" 
implying  in  her  tone  of  affectionate  raillery  that  with- 
out her  he  was  a  lost  man.  Through  this  loose  but- 
ton, she  was  his  mother,  his  good  angel,  his  saviour. 
The  trifle  had  led  to  a  general  visitation  of  his  ward- 
robe, conducted  by  her  with  metropolitan  skill  in  hu- 
mouring his  susceptibilities. 

Edwin  now  tried  on  the  new  office-coat  with  the  self- 
consciousness  that  none  but  an  odious  dandy  can  avoid 
on  such  occasions. 

"It  seems  warmer  than  it  used  to  be,"  he  said, 
pleased  to  have  her  beholding  him  and  interesting  her- 
self in  him,  especially  in  his  office.  Her  presence 
there,  unless  it  happened  to  arouse  his  jealousy  for  his 
business  independence,  always  pleasurably  excited 
him.  Her  muff  on  the  desk  had  the  air  of  being  the 
muff  of  a  woman  who  was  amorously  interested  in  him, 
but  his  relations  with  whom  were  not  regularised  by 
the  law  or  the  church. 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I've  put  some  wash-leather  inside 
the  lining  at  the  back." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  didn't  you  say  you  felt  the  cold  from  the 
window,  and  it's  bad  for  your  liver?" 

Her  glance  said: 

"Am  I  not  a  clever  woman?" 

And  his  replied: 

"You  are." 

"That's  the  end  of  that,  I  hope,  darling,"  she  re- 
marked, picking  up  the  old  office-coat  and  dropping  it 
with  charming  affected  disgust  into  the  waste-paper 
basket. 

He  shouted   for  the   clerk,  who  entered  with   some 


THE  DISCOVERY  481 

letters  for  signature.  Under  the  eyes  of  his  wife  Ed- 
win signed  them  with  the  demeanour  of  a  secretary  of 
state  signing  the  destiny  of  provinces,  while  the  clerk 
respectfully  waited. 

"I've  asked  Maggie  to  come  up  for  the  week-end," 
said  Hilda  carelessly,  when  they  were  alone  together, 
and  Edwin  was  straightening  the  desk  preparatory  to 
departure. 

Since  her  return  she  had  become  far  more  friendly 
with  Maggie  than  ever  before, — not  because  Maggie 
had  revealed  any  new  charm,  but  because  she  saw  in 
Maggie  a  victim  of  injustice.  Nothing  during  the  week 
had  more  severely  tested  Hilda's  new  methods  of  in- 
tercourse with  Edwin  than  the  disclosure  of  the  pro- 
visions of  Auntie  Hamps's  will,  which  she  had  at  once 
and  definitely  set  down  as  monstrous.  She  simply 
could  not  comprehend  Edwin's  calm  acceptance  of  them, 
and  a  month  earlier  she  would  have  been  bitter  about 
it.  It  was  not  (she  was  convinced)  that  she  coveted 
money,  but  that  she  hated  unfairness.  Why  should 
the  Benbows  have  all  Auntie  Hamps's  possessions,  and 
Edwin  and  Maggie,  who  had  done  a  thousand  times 
more  for  her  than  the  Benbows,  nothing?  Hilda's 
conversation  implied  that  the  Benbows  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves,  and  when  Edwin  pointed  out 
that  their  good  luck  was  not  their  fault,  only  a  mir- 
acle of  self-control  had  enabled  her  to  say  nicely: 
"That's  quite  true,"  instead  of  sneering:  "That's 
you  all  over,  Edwin!"  When  she  learnt  that  Edwin 
would  receive  not  a  penny  for  his  labours  as  executor 
and  trustee  for  the  Benbow  children,  she  was  speech- 
less. Perceiving  that  he  did  not  care  for  her  to  dis- 
course upon  what  she  considered  to  be  the  wrong  done 
to  him,  she  discoursed  upon  the  wrong  done  to  Mag- 
gie— Maggie  who  was  already  being  deprived  by  the 


482  THESE  TWAIN 

wicked  Albert  of  interest  due  to  her.  And  Edwin  had 
to  agree  with  her  about  Maggie's  case.  It  appeared 
that  Maggie  also  agreed  with  her  about  Maggie's  case. 
As  for  the  Benbows,  Hilda  had  not  deigned  to  say  one 
word  to  them  on  the  matter.  A  look,  a  tone,  a  silence, 
had  sufficed  to  express  the  whole  of  Hilda's  mind  to 
those  Benbows. 

"Oh!"  said  Edwin.  "So  Maggie's  coming  for  the 
week-end,  is  she?  Well,  that's  not  a  bad  scheme."  He 
knew  that  Maggie  had  been  very  helpful  about  ser- 
vants, and  that,  the  second  servant  having  not  yet 
arrived,  she  would  certainly  do  much  more  work  in 
the  house  than  she  "made."  He  pictured  her  and 
Hilda  becoming  still  more  intimate  as  they  turned 
sheets  and  blankets  and  shook  pillows  on  opposite  sides 
of  beds,  and  he  was  glad. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda.  "I've  called  there  this  morn- 
ing." 

"And  what's  she  doing  with  Minnie?" 

"We've  settled  all  that,"  said  Hilda  proudly.  Ed- 
win had  told  her  in  detail  the  whole  story  of  Minnie, 
and  she  had  behaved  exactly  as  he  had  anticipated. 
Her  championship  of  Minnie  had  been  as  passionate 
as  her  ruthless  verdict  upon  Minnie's  dead  mistress. 
"The  girl's  aunt  was  there  when  I  called.  We've  set- 
tled she  is  to  go  to  Stone,  and  Maggie  and  I  shall  do 
something  for  her,  and  when  it's  all  over  I  may  take 
her  on  as  housemaid.  Maggie  says  she  probably 
wouldn't  make  a  bad  housemaid.  Anyhow  it's  all  ar- 
ranged for  the  present." 

"Then  Maggie'll  be  without  a  servant?" 

"No,  she  won't.  We  shall  manage  that.  Besides, 
I  suppose  Maggie  won't  stay  on  in  that  house  all  by 
herself  for  ever!  .  .  .  It's  just  the  right  size,  I 
see." 


THE  DISCOVERY  483 

"Just!"  said  Edwin. 

He  was  spreading  over  his  desk  a  dust-sheet  with  a 
red  scolloped  edging  which  Hilda  had  presented  to 
him  three  days  earlier. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  composed  and  justifiable  self- 
satisfaction,  as  if  saying:  "Leave  absolutely  to  me 
everything  in  my  department,  and  see  how  smooth  your 
life  will  be!" 

He  would  never  praise  her,  and  she  had  a  very 
healthy  appetite  for  praise,  which  appetite  always 
went  hungry.  But  now,  instead  of  resenting  his  nig- 
gardly reserve,  she  said  to  herself:  "Poor  boy!  He 
can't  bring  himself  to  pay  compliments ;  that's  it.  But 
his  eyes  are  full  of  delicious  compliments."  She  was 
happy,  even  if  apprehensive  for  the  immediate  future. 
There  she  was,  established  and  respected  in  his  office, 
which  was  his  church  and  the  successful  rival  of  her 
boudoir.  Her  plans  were  progressing. 

She  approached  the  real  business  of  her  call: 

"I  was  thinking  we  might  have  gone  over  to  see 
Ingpen  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  let's." 

Ingpen,  convalescent,  had  insisted,  two  days  earlier, 
on  being  removed  to  his  own  house,  near  the  village  of 
Stockbrook,  a  few  miles  south  of  Axe.  The  depart- 
ure was  a  surprising  example  of  the  mere  power  of 
volition  on  the  part  of  a  patient.  The  routine  of 
hospital  life  had  exasperated  the  recovering  soul  of 
this  priest  of  freedom  to  such  a  point  that  doctor, 
matron,  and  friends  had  had  to  yield  to  a  mere  in- 
stinct. 

"There's  no  decent  train  to  go,  and  none  at  all  to 
come  back  until  nearly  nine  o'clock.  And  we  can't 
cycle  in  this  weather — at  least  I  can't,  especially  in  the 
dark." 


484  THESE  TWAIN 

"Well,  what  about  Sunday?" 

"The  Sunday  trains    are  worse." 

"What  a  ghastly  line!"  said  Edwin.  "And  they 
have  the  cheek  to  pay  five  per  cent !  I  remember  Ing- 
pen  telling  me  there  was  one  fairish  train  into  Knype 
in  the  morning,  and  one  out  in  the  afternoon.  And 
there  wouldn't  be  that  if  the  Locomotive  Superintend- 
ent didn't  happen  to  live  at  Axe." 

"It's  a  pity  you  haven't  got  a  dog-cart,  isn't  it?" 
said  Hilda,  lightly  smiling.  "Because  then  we  could 
use  the  works  horse  now  and  then,  and  it  wouldn't 
really  cost  anything  extra,  would  it?" 

Her  heart  was  beating  perceptibly. 

Edwin  shook  his  head,  agreeably,  but  with  firmness.. 

"Can't  mix  up  two  different  things  like  that!"  he 
said. 

She  knew  it.  She  was  aware  of  the  whole  theory 
of  horse-owning  among  the  upper  trading-class  in  the 
Five  Towns.  A  butcher  might  use  his  cob  for  pleas- 
ure on  Sundays — he  never  used  it  for  pleasure  on  any 
other  day — but  traders  on  a  higher  plane  than 
butchers  drew  between  the  works  and  the  house  a  line 
which  a  works  horse  was  not  permitted  to  cross.  One 
or  two,  perhaps, — but  not  the  most  solid — would  put 
a  carter  into  a  livery  overcoat  and  a  shabby  top-hat 
and  describe  him  as  a  coachman  while  on  rare  after- 
noons he  drove  a  landau  or  a  victoria  picked  up  cheap 
at  Axe  or  Market  Drayton.  But  the  majority  had 
no  pretensions  to  the  owning  of  private  carriages. 
The  community  was  not  in  fact  a  carriage  community. 
Even  the  Orgreaves  had  never  dreamed  of  a  carriage. 
Old  Darius  Clayhanger  would  have  been  staggered  into 
profanity  by  the  suggestion  of  such  a  thing.  Indeed, 
until  some  time  after  old  Clayhanger's  death  the  print- 
ing business  had  been  content  to  deliver  all  its  orders 


THE  DISCOVERY  485 

in  a  boy-pushed  handcart.  Only  when  Edwin  discov- 
ered that,  for  instance,  two  thousand  catalogues  on 
faced  clay  paper  could  not  be  respectably  delivered  in 
a  handcart,  had  he  steeled  himself  to  the  prodigious 
move  of  setting  up  a  stable.  He  had  found  an  entirely 
trustworthy  ostler-carter  with  the  comfortable  name 
of  Unchpin,  and,  an  animal  and  a  tradesman's  cov- 
ered cart  having  been  bought,  he  had  left  the  affair 
to  Unchpin.  Naturally  he  had  never  essayed  to  drive 
the  tradesman's  cart.  And  Edwin  Clayhanger  could 
not  be  seen  on  the  insecure  box  of  a  tradesman's  cart. 
He  had  learnt  nothing  about  horses  except  that  a  horse 
should  be  watered  before,  and  not  after,  being  fed,  that 
shoeing  cost  a  shilling  a  week  and  fodder  a  shilling  a 
day,  and  that  a  horse  driven  over  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  a  week  was  likely  to  get  "a  bit  over"  at  the 
knees.  At  home  the  horse  and  cart  had  always  been 
regarded  as  being  just  as  exclusively  a  works  item  as 
the  printing-machines  or  the  steam-engine. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hilda  carefully,  "you've  got  all 
the  work  one  horse  can  do?" 

"And  more." 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you  buy  another  one?"  She 
tried  to  speak  carelessly,  without  genuine  interest. 

"Yes,  no  doubt!"  Edwin  answered  drily.  "And 
build  fresh  stables,  too." 

"Haven't  you  got  room  for  two?" 

"Come  along  and  look,  and  then  perhaps  you'll  be 
satisfied." 

Buzzers,  syrens,  and  whistles  began  to  sound  in  the 
neighbourhood.  It  was  one  o'clock. 

"Shall  I?  ...  Your  overcoat  collar's  turned  up 
behind.  Let  me  do  it." 

She  straightened  the  collar. 

They  went   out,  through  the  clerk's  office.     Edwin 


486  THESE  TWAIN 

gave  a  sideways  nod  to  Simpson.  In  the  passage  some 
girls  and  a  few  men  were  already  hurrying  forth.  None 
of  them  took  notice  of  Edwin  and  Hilda.  They  all 
plunged  for  the  street  as  though  the  works  had  been 
on  fire. 

"They  are  in  a  hurry,  my  word !"  Hilda  murmured, 
with  irony. 

"And  why  shouldn't  they  be?"  the  employer  pro- 
tested almost  angrily. 

In  the  small  yard  stood  the  horseless  cart,  with 
"Edwin  Clayhanger,  Lithographer  and  Steam  Printer, 
Bursley,"  on  both  its  sides.  The  stable  and  cart-shed 
were  in  one  penthouse,  and  to  get  to  the  stable  it  was 
necessary  to  pass  through  the  cart-shed.  linchpin, 
a  fat  man  of  forty  with  a  face  marked  by  black  seams, 
was  bending  over  a  chaff-cutter  in  the  cart-shed.  He 
ignored  the  intruders.  The  stable  consisted  of  one 
large  loose-box,  in  which  a  grey  animal  was  restlessly 
moving. 

"You  see !"  Edwin  muttered  curtly. 

"Oh !  What  a  beautiful  horse !  I've  never  seen  him 
before." 

"Her,"  Edwin  corrected. 

"Is  it  a  mare?" 

"So  they  say!" 

"I  never  knew  you'd  got  a  fresh  one." 

"I  haven't — yet.  I've  taken  this  one  for  a  fort- 
night's trial,  from  Chawner.  .  .  .  How's  she  doing, 
Unchpin?"  he  called  to  the  cart-shed. 

Unchpin  looked  round  and  stared. 

"Bit  light,"  he  growled  and  turned  back  to  the  chaff- 
cutter,  which  he  seemed  to  be  repairing. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Edwin. 

"But  her's  a  good  'un,"  he  added. 

"But  where's  the  old  horse?"  asked  Hilda. 


THE  DISCOVERY  487 

"With  God,"  Edwin  replied.  "Dropped  down  dead 
last  week." 

"What  of?" 

Edwin  shook  his  head. 

"It's  a  privilege  of  horses  to  do  that  sort  of  thing," 
he  said.  "They're  always  doing  it." 

"You  never  told  me." 

"Well,  you  weren't  here,  for  one  thing." 

The  mare  inquisitively  but  cautiously  put  her  muz- 
zle over  the  door  of  the  box.  Hilda  stroked  her.  The 
animal's  mysterious  eyes,  her  beautiful  coat,  her  broad 
back,  her  general  bigness  relatively  to  Hilda,  the  sound 
of  her  feet  among  the  litter  on  the  paving  stones,  the 
smell  of  the  stable, — these  things  enchanted  Hilda. 

"I  should  adore  horses !"  she  breathed,  half  to  her- 
self, ecstatically ;  and  wondered  whether  she  would 
ever  be  able  to  work  her  will  on  Edwin  in  the  matter 
of  a  dog-cart.  She  pictured  herself  driving  the  grey 
mare,  who  had  learnt  to  love  her,  in  a  flashing  dog- 
cart, Edwin  by  her  side  on  the  front-seat.  Her  mind 
went  back  enviously  to  Tavy  Mansion  and  Dartmoor. 
But  she  felt  that  Edwin  had  not  enough  elasticity  to 
comprehend  the  rapture  of  her  dream.  She  foresaw 
nearly  endless  trouble  and  altercation  and  chicane 
before  she  could  achieve  her  end.  She  was  ready  to 
despair,  but  she  remembered  her  resolutions  and  took 
heart. 

"I  say,  linchpin,"  said  Edwin.  "I  suppose  this 
box  couldn't  be  made  into  two  stalls?" 

Unchpin  on  his  gaitered  legs  clumped  towards  the 
stable,  and  gazed  gloomily  into  the  box.  When  he 
had  gazed  for  some  time,  he  touched  his  cap  to  Hilda. 

"It  could,"  he  announced. 

"Could  you  get  a  trap  into  the  shed  as  well  as  the 
cart?" 


488  THESE  TWAIN 

"Ay !  If  ye  dropped  th'  shafts  o'  th'  trap  under  th' 
cart.  What  of  it,  mester?" 

"Nothing.     Only  missis  is  going  to  have  this  mare." 

After  a  pause,  Unchpin  muttered : 

"Missis,  eh!" 

Hilda  had  moved  a  little  away  into  the  yard.  Edwin 
approached  her,  flushing  slightly,  and  with  a  self-con- 
sciousness which  he  tried  to  dissipate  with  one  wink. 
Hilda's  face  was  set  hard. 

"I  must  just  go  back  to  the  office,"  she  said,  in  a 
queer  voice. 

She  walked  quickly,  Edwin  following.  Simpson  be- 
held their  return  with  gentle  surprise.  In  the  private 
office  Hilda  shut  the  door.  She  then  ran  to  the  puz- 
zled Edwin,  and  kissed  him  with  the  most  startling  ve- 
hemence, clasping  her  arms — in  one  hand  she  still  held 
the  muff — round  his  neck.  She  loved  him  for  being 
exactly  as  he  was.  She  preferred  his  strange,  uncouth 
method  of  granting  a  request,  of  yielding,  of  flattering 
her  caprice,  to  any  politer,  more  conventional  methods 
of  the  metropolis.  She  thought  that  no  other  man 
could  be  as  deeply  romantic  as  Edwin.  She  despised 
herself  for  ever  having  been  misled  by  the  surface  of 
him.  And  even  the  surface  of  him  she  saw  now  as  it 
were,  through  the  prism  of  passionate  affection,  to  be 
edged  with  the  blending  colours  of  the  rainbow.  And 
when  they  came  again  out  of  the  office,  after  the  sacred 
rite,  and  Edwin,  as  uplifted  as  she,  glanced  back  never- 
theless at  the  sheeted  desk  and  the  safe  and  the  other 
objects  in  the  room  with  the  half-mechanical  habitual 
solicitude  of  a  man  from  whom  the  weight  of  respon- 
sibility is  never  lifted,  she  felt  saddened  because  she 
could  not  enter  utterly  into  his  impenetrable  soul, 
and  live  through  all  his  emotions,  and  compre- 
hend like  a  creator  the  always  baffling  wistfulness  of 


THE  DISCOVERY  489 

his  eyes.  This  sadness  was  joy;  it  was  the  aura  of  her 
tremendous  satisfaction  in  his  individuality  and  in  her 
triumph  and  in  the  thought:  "I  alone  stand  between 
him  and  desolation." 


"Wo !"  exclaimed  Hilda  broadly,  bringing  the  mare 
and  the  vehicle  to  a  standstill  in  front  of  the  "Live 
and  Let  Live"  inn  in  the  main  street  of  the  village  of 
Stockbrook,  which  lay  about  a  mile  and  a  half  off  the 
high  road  from  the  Five  Towns  to  Axe.  And  imme- 
diately the  mare  stopped  she  was  enveloped  in  her 
own  vapour. 

"Ha !"  exclaimed  Edwin,  with  faint  benevolent  irony. 
"And  no  bones  broken !" 

A  man  came  out  from  the  stable-yard. 

The  village  of  Stockbrook  gave  the  illusion  that 
hundreds  of  English  villages  were  giving  that  Christ- 
mas morning, — the  illusion  that  its  name  was  Arcadia, 
that  finality  had  been  reached,  and  that  the  forces  of 
civilisation  could  go  no  further.  More  suave  than  a 
Dutch  village,  incomparably  neater  and  cleaner  and 
more  delicately  finished  than  a  French  village,  it  pre- 
sented, in  the  still,  complacent  atmosphere  of  long  tra- 
dition, a  picturesque  medley  of  tiny  architectures 
nearly  every  aspect  of  which  was  beautiful.  And  if 
seven  people  of  different  ages  and  sexes  lived  in  a  two- 
roomed  cottage  under  a  thatched  roof  hollowed  by  the 
weight  of  years,  without  drains  and  without  water,  and 
also  without  freedom,  the  beholder  was  yet  bound  to 
conclude  that  by  some  mysterious  virtue  their  exist- 
ence must  be  gracious,  happy,  and  in  fact  ideal — es- 
pecially on  Christmas  Day,  though  Christmas  Day  was 
also  Quarter  Day — and  that  they  would  not  on  any  ac- 
count have  it  altered  in  the  slightest  degree.  Who 


490  THESE  TWAIN 

could  believe  that  fathers  of  families  drank  away  their 
children's  bread  in  the  quaint  tap-room  of  that  creeper- 
clad  hostel — a  public-house  fit  to  produce  ecstasy  in 
the  heart  of  every  American  traveller — "The  Live 
and  Let  Live"?  Who  could  have  believed  that 
the  Wesleyan  Methodists  already  singing  a  Christmas 
hymn  inside  the  dwarf  Georgian  conventicle,  and  their 
fellow-Christians  straggling  under  the  lych  into  the 
church-yard,  scorned  one  another  with  an  immortal  de- 
testation, each  claiming  a  monopoly  in  knowledge  of  the 
unknowable?  But  after  all  the  illusion  of  Arcadia  was 
not  entirely  an  illusion.  In  this  calm,  rime-decked, 
Christmas-imbued  village,  with  its  motionless  trees  en- 
chanted beneath  a  vast  grey  impenetrable  cloud,  a  sort 
of  relative  finality  had  indeed  been  reached, — the  end 
of  an  epoch  that  was  awaiting  dissolution. 

Edwin  had  not  easily  agreed  to  the  project  of  shut- 
ting up  house  for  the  day  and  eating  the  Christmas 
dinner  with  Tertius  Ingpen.  Although  customarily  re- 
garding the  ritual  of  Christmas,  with  its  family  visits, 
its  exchange  of  presents,  its  feverish  kitchen  activity, 
its  somewhat  insincere  gaiety,  its  hours  of  boredom, 
and  its  stomachic  regrets,  as  an  ordeal  rather  than  a 
delight,  he  nevertheless  abandoned  it  with  reluctance 
and  a  sense  of  being  disloyal  to  something  sacred. 
But  the  situation  of  Ingpen,  Hilda's  strong  desire  and 
her  teasing  promise  of  a  surprise,  and  the  still  contin- 
uing dearth  of  servants  had  been  good  arguments  to 
persuade  him. 

And  though  he  had  left  Trafalgar  Road  moody  and 
captious,  thinking  all  the  time  of  the  deserted  and 
cold  home,  he  had  arrived  in  Stockbrook  tingling  and 
happy,  and  proud  of  Hilda, — proud  of  her  verve,  her 
persistency,  and  her  success.  She  had  carried  him  very 
far  on  the  wave  of  her  new  enthusiasm  for  horse-trac- 


THE  DISCOVERY  491 

tion.  She  had  beguiled  him  into  immediately  spending 
mighty  sums  on  a  dog-cart,  new  harness,  rugs,  a  driv- 
ing-apron, and  a  fancy  whip.  She  had  exhausted 
Unchpin,  upset  the  routine  of  the  lithographic  business, 
and  gravely  overworked  the  mare,  in  her  determination 
to  learn  to  drive.  She  had  had  the  equipage  out  at 
night  for  her  lessons.  On  the  other  hand  she  had  not 
in  the  least  troubled  herself  about  the  purchase  of  a 
second  horse  for  mercantile  purposes,  and  a  second 
horse  had  not  yet  been  bought. 

When  she  had  announced  that  she  would  herself  drive 
her  husband  and  son  over  to  Stockbrook,  Edwin  had 
absolutely  negatived  the  idea;  but  Unchpin  had  been 
on  her  side;  she  had  done  the  double  journey  with 
Unchpin,  who  judged  her  capable  and  the  mare  (eight 
years  old)  quite  reliable,  and  who  moreover  wanted 
Christmas  as  much  as  possible  to  himself.  And  Hilda 
had  triumphed.  Walking  the  mare  uphill — and  also 
downhill — she  had  achieved  Stockbrook  in  safety;  and 
the  conquering  air  with  which  she  drew  up  at  the  "Live 
and  Let  Live"  was  delicious.  The  chit's  happi- 
ness and  pride  radiated  out  from  her.  It  seemed 
to  Edwin  that  by  the  mere  strength  of  violition 
she  had  actually  created  the  dog-cart  and  its  appoint- 
ments, and  the  mare  too!  And  he  thought  that  he 
himself  had  not  lived  in  vain  if  he  could  procure  her 
such  sensations  as  her  glowing  face  then  displayed. 
Her  occasionally  overbearing  tenacity,  and  the  little 
jars  which  good  resolutions  several  weeks  old  had  nat- 
urally not  been  powerful  enough  to  prevent,  were  for- 
gotten and  forgiven.  He  would  have  given  all  his  sav- 
ings to  please  her  caprice,  and  been  glad.  A  horse  and 
trap,  or  even  a  pair  of  horses  and  a  landau,  were  a 
trifling  price  to  pay  for  her  girlish  joy  and  for  his  own 
tranquillity  in  his  beloved  house  and  business. 


492  THESE  TWAIN 

"Catch  me,  both  of  you !"  cried  Hilda. 

Edwin  had  got  down,  and  walked  round  behind  the 
vehicle  to  the  footpath,  where  George  stood  grinning. 
The  stableman,  in  classic  attitude,  was  at  the  mare's 
head. 

•  Hilda  jumped  rather  wildly.  It  was  Edwin  who 
countered  the  shock  of  her  descent.  The  edge  of  her 
velvet  hat  knocked  against  his  forehead,  disarranging 
his  cap.  He  could  smell  the  velvet,  as  for  an  instant 
he  held  his  wife — strangely  acquiescent  and  yielding — 
in  his  arms,  and  there  was  something  intimately  fem- 
inine in  the  faint  odour.  All  Hilda's  happiness  seemed 
to  pass  into  him,  and  that  felicity  sufficed  for  him.  He 
did  not  desire  any  happiness  personal  to  himself.  He 
wanted  only  to  live  in  her.  His  contentment  was  pro- 
found, complete,  rapturous. 

And  yet  in  the  same  moment,  reflecting  that  Hilda 
would  certainly  have  neglected  the  well-being  of  the 
mare,  he  could  say  to  the  stableman: 

"Put  the  rug  over  her,  will  you?" 

"Hello !  Here's  Mr.  Ingpen  !"  announced  George,  as 
he  threw  the  coloured  rug  on  the  mare. 

Ingpen,  pale  and  thickly  enveloped,  came  slowly 
round  the  bend  of  the  road,  waving  and  smiling.  He 
had  had  a  relapse,  after  a  too  early  sortie,  and  was 
recovering  from  it. 

"I  made  sure  you'd  be  about  here,"  he  said,  shaking 
hands.  "Merry  Christmas,  all!" 

"Ought  you  to  be  out,  my  lad?"  Edwin  asked  heart- 

%. 

"Out?  Yes.  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle.  And  I've  been 
ordered  mild  exercise."  He  squared  off  gaily  against 
George  and  hit  the  stout  adolescent  in  the  chest. 

"What  about  all  your  parcels,  Hilda?"  Edwin  en- 
quired. 


THE  DISCOVERY  493 

"Oh!     We'll  call  for  them  afterwards." 

"Afterwards?" 

"Yes.  Come  along — before  you  catch  a  chill."  She 
winked  openly  at  Ingpen,  who  returned  the  wink. 
"Come  along,  dear.  It's  not  far.  We  have  to  walk 
across  the  fields." 

"Put  her  up,  sir?"  the  stableman  demanded  of  Ed- 
win. 

"Yes.  And  give  her  a  bit  of  a  rub  down,"  he  re- 
plied absently,  remembering  various  references  of 
Hilda's  to  a  surprise.  His  heart  misgave  him.  Ingpen 
and  Hilda  looked  like  plotters,  very  intimate  and  mis- 
chievous. He  had  a  notion  that  living  with  a  woman 
was  comparable  to  living  with  a  volcano — you  never 
knew  when  a  dangerous  eruption  might  not  occur. 

Within  three  minutes  the  first  and  minor  catastrophe 
had  occurred. 

"Bit  sticky,  this  field  path  of  yours,"  said  Edwin, 
uneasily. 

They  were  all  four  slithering  about  in  brown  clay 
under  a  ragged  hedge  in  which  a  few  red  berries 
glowed. 

"It  was  as  hard  as  iron  the  day  before  yesterday," 
said  Hilda. 

"Oh!  So  you  were  here  the  day  before  yesterday, 
were  you?  .  .  .  What's  that  house  there?"  Edwin 
turned  to  Ingpen. 

"He's  guessed  it  in  one !"  Ingpen  murmured,  and 
then  went  off  into  his  characteristic  crescendo  laugh. 

The  upper  part  of  a  late  eighteenth-century  house, 
squat  and  square,  with  yellow  walls,  black  uncurtained 
windows,  high  slim  chimneys,  and  a  blue  slate  roof, 
showed  like  a  gigantic  and  mysterious  fruit  in  a 
clump  of  variegated  trees,  some  of  which  were  ever- 
green. 


494  THESE  TWAIN 

"Ladderedge  Hall,  my  boy,"  said  Ingpen.  "Seat  of 
the  Beechinors  for  about  a  hundred  years." 

"  'Seat',  eh !"  Edwin  murmured  sarcastically. 

"It's  been  empty  for  two  years,"  remarked  Hilda 
brightly.  "So  we  thought  we'd  have  a  look  at  it." 

And  Edwin  said  to  himself  that  he  had  divined  all 
along  what  the  surprise  was.  It  was  astounding  that 
a  man  could  pass  with  such  rapidity  as  Edwin  from 
vivid  joy  to  black  and  desolate  gloom.  She  well  knew 
that  the  idea  of  living  in  the  country  was  extremely 
repugnant  to  him,  and  that  nothing  would  ever  induce 
him  to  consent  to  it.  And  yet  she  must  needs  lay 
this  trap  for  him,  prepare  this  infantile  surprise,  and 
thereby  spoil  his  Christmas,  she  who  a  few  moments 
earlier  had  been  the  embodiment  of  surrender  in  his 
arms !  He  said  no  word.  He  hummed  a  few  notes  and 
glanced  airily  to  right  and  left  with  an  effort  after  un- 
concern. The  presence  of  Ingpen  and  the  boy,  and  the 
fact  of  Christmas,  forbade  him  to  speak  freely.  He 
could  not  suddenly  stop  and  4rive  his  stick  into  the 
earth  and  say  savagely : 

*  "Now  listen  to  me !  Once  for  all,  I  won't  have  this 
country  house  idea!  So  let  it  be  understood, — if  you 
want  a  row,  you  know  how  to  get  it." 

The  appearance  of  amity — and  the  more  high-spirit- 
ed the  better — must  be  kept  up  throughout  the  day. 
Nevertheless  in  his  heart  he  challenged  Hilda  desper- 
ately. All  her  good  qualities  became  insignificant,  all 
his  benevolent  estimates  of  her  seemed  ridiculous.  She 
was  the  impossible  woman.  He  saw  a  tremendous  vista 
of  unpleasantness,  for  her  obstinacy  in  warfare  was 
known  to  him,  together  with  her  perfect  lack  of  scruple, 
of  commonsense,  and  of  social  decency.  He  had  made 
her  a  present  of  a  horse  and  trap — solely  to  please 
her — and  this  was  his  reward !  The  more  rope  you 


THE  DISCOVERY  495 

gave  these  creatures,  the  more  they  wanted!  But  he 
would  give  no  more  rope.  Compromise  was  at  an  end. 
The  battle  would  be  joined  that  night.  ...  In 
his  grim  and  resolute  dejection  there  was  something 
almost  voluptuous.  He  continued  to  glance  airily 
about,  and  at  intervals  to  hum  a  few  notes. 

Over  a  stile  they  dropped  into  a  rutty  side-road, 
and  opposite  was  the  worn  iron  gate  of  Ladderedge 
Hall,  with  a  house-agent's  board  on  it.  A  short  curved 
gravel  drive,  filmed  with  green,  led  to  the  front-door 
of  the  house.  In  front  were  a  lawn  and  a  flower-gar- 
den, beyond  a  paddock,  and  behind  a  vegetable  garden 
and  a  glimpse  of  stabling ;  a  compact  property !  Ing- 
pen  drew  a  great  key  from  his  pocket.  The  plotters 
were  all  prepared ;  they  took  their  victim  for  a  simple- 
ton, a  ninny,  a  lamb! 

In  the  damp  echoing  interior  Edwin  gazed  without 
seeing,  and  heard  as  in  a  dream  without  listening. 
This  was  the  hall,  this  the  dining-room,  this  the  draw- 
ing-room, this  the  morning-room.  .  .  .  White  marble 
mantelpieces,  pre-historic  grates,  wall-paper  hanging 
in  strips,  cobwebs,  uneven  floors,  scaly  ceilings,  the 
invisible  vapour  of  human  memories!  This  was  the 
kitchen,  enormous;  then  the  larder,  enormous,  and  the 
scullery  still  more  enormous  (with  a  pump-handle  flank- 
ing the  slopstone) !  No  water.  No  gas.  And  what 
was  this  room  opening  out  of  the  kitchen?  Oh!  That 
must  be  the  servants'  hall.  .  .  .  Servants'  hall  indeed! 
Imagine  Edwin  Clayhanger  living  in  a  "Hall,"  with  a 
servants'  hall  therein!  Snobbishness  unthinkable!  He 
would  not  be  able  to  look  his  friends  in  the  face.  .  .  . 
On  the  first  floor,  endless  bedrooms,  but  no  bath-room. 
Here,  though,  was  a  small  bedroom  that  would  make  a 
splendid  bath-room.  .  .  .  Ingpen,  the  ever  expert,  con- 
ceived a  tank-room  in  the  roof,  and  traced  routes  for 


496  THESE  TWAIN 

plumbers'  pipes.  George,  excited,  and  comprehending 
that  he  must  conduct  himself  as  behoved  an  architect, 
ran  up  to  the  attic  floor  to  study  on  the  spot  the  prob- 
lem of  the  tank-room,  and  Ingpen  followed.  Edwin 
stared  out  of  a  window  at  the  prospect  of  the  Arcadian 
village  lying  a  little  below  across  the  sloping  fields. 

"Come  along,  Edwin,"  Hilda  coaxed. 

Yes,  she  had  pretended  a  deep  concern  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  suffering  feckless  bachelor,  Tertius  Ing- 
pen.  She  had  paid  visit  after  visit  in  order  to  watch 
over  his  convalescence.  Choosing  to  ignore  his  scorn 
for  all  her  sex,  she  had  grown  more  friendly  with  him 
than  even  Edwin  had  ever  been.  Indeed  by  her  sympa- 
thetic attentions  she  had  made  Edwin  seem  callous  in 
comparison.  And  all  the  time  she  had  merely  been 
pursuing  a  private  design — with  what  girlish  deceit- 
fulness. 

In  the  emptiness  of  the  house  the  voices  of  Ingpen 
and  George  echoed  from  above  down  the  second  flight  of 
stairs. 

"No  good  going  to  the  attics,"  muttered  Edwin,  on 
the  landing. 

Hilda,  half  cajoling,  half  fretful,  protested: 

"Now,  Edwin,  don't  be  disagreeable." 

He  followed  her  on  high,  martyrised.  The  front 
wall  of  the  house  rose  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  attic 
windows,  screening  and  darkening  them. 

"Cheerful  view !"  Edwin  growled. 

He  heard  Ingpen  saying  that  the  place  could  be  had 
on  a  repairing  lease  for  sixty-five  pounds  a  year,  and 
that  perhaps  £1,200  would  buy  it.  Dirt  cheap. 

"Ah !"  Edwin  murmured.  "I  know  those  repairing 
leases.  £1,000  wouldn't  make  this  barn  fit  to  live  in." 

£Te  knew  that  Ingpen  and  Hilda  exchanged  glances. 

"It's  larger  than  Tavy  Mansion,"  said  Hilda. 


THE  DISCOVERY  497 

Tavy  Mansion !  There  was  the  secret !  Tavy  Man- 
sion was  at  the  bottom  of  her  scheme.  Alicia  Hes- 
keth  had  a  fine  house,  and  Hilda  must  have  a  finer. 
She,  Hilda,  of  all  people,  was  a  snob.  He  had  long 
suspected  it. 

He  rejoined  sharply:  "Of  course  it  isn't  larger  than 
Tavy  Mansion !  It  isn't  as  large." 

"Oh !  Edwin.    How  can  you  say  such  things  !" 

In  the  portico,  as  Ingpen  was  re-locking  the  door, 
the  husband  said  negligently,  superiorly,  cheerfully: 

"It's  not  so  bad.  I  expect  there's  hundreds  of  places 
like  this  up  and  down  the  country — going  cheap." 

The  walk  back  to  the  "Live  and  Let  Live"  was  irked 
by  constraint,  against  which  everyone  fought  nobly, 
smiling,  laughing,  making  remarks  about  cockrobins, 
the  sky,  the  Christmas  dinner. 

"So  I  hear  it's  settled  you're  going  to  London  when 
you  leave  school,  kiddie,"  said  Tertius  Ingpen,  to 
bridge  over  a  fearful  hiatus  in  the  prittle-prattle. 

George,  so  big  now  and  so  mannishly  dressed  as  to 
be  amused  and  not  a  bit  hurt  by  the  appellation  "kid- 
die," confirmed  the  statement  in  his  deepening  voice. 

Edwin  thought: 

"It's  more  than  /  hear,  anyway !" 

Hilda  had  told  him  that  during  the  visit  to  London 
the  project  for  articling  George  to  Johnnie  Orgreave 
had  been  revived,  but  she  had  not  said  that  a  decision 
had  been  taken.  Though  Edwin  from  careful  pride 
had  not  spoken  freely — George  being  Hilda's  affair 
and  not  his — he  had  shown  no  enthusiasm.  Johnnie 
Orgreave  had  sunk  permanently  in  his  esteem — scarcely 
less  so  than  Jimmie,  whose  conjugal  eccentricities  had 
scandalised  the  Five  Towns  and  were  achieving  the 
ruin  of  the  Orgreave  practice;  or  than  Tom,  who  was 
developing  into  a  miser.  Moreover,  he  did  not  at  all 


498  THESE  TWAIN 

care  for  George  going  to  London.  Why  should  it  be 
thought  necessary  for  George  to  go  to  London?  The 
sagacious  and  successful  provincial  in  Edwin  was 
darkly  jealous  of  London,  as  a  rival  superficial  and 
brilliant.  And  now  he  learnt  from  Ingpen  that 
George's  destiny  was  fixed.  ...  A  matter  of  small  im- 
portance, however ! 

Did  "they"  seriously  expect  him  to  travel  from  Lad- 
deredge  Hall  to  his  works,  and  from  his  works  to 
Ladderedge  Hall  every  week-day  of  his  life  ?  He  laughed 
sardonically  to  himself. 

Out  came  the  sun,  which  George  greeted  with  a 
cheer.  And  Edwin,  to  his  own  surprise,  began  to  feel 
hungry. 

m 

"I  shan't  take  that  house,  you  know,"  said  Edwin, 
casually  and  yet  confidentially,  in  a  pause  which  fol- 
lowed a  long  analysis,  by  Ingpen,  of  Ingpen's  sensa- 
tions in  hospital  before  he  was  out  of  danger. 

They  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  a  splendid  extrava- 
gant fire  in  Ingpen's  dining-room. 

Ingpen,  sprawling  in  a  shabby,  uncomfortable  easy- 
chair,  and  flushed  with  the  activity  of  digestion,  raised 
his  eyebrows,  squinted  down  at  the  cigarette  between 
his  lips,  and  answered  impartially: 

"No.  So  I  gather.  Of  course  you  must  understand 
it  was  Hilda's  plan  to  go  up  there.  I  merely  fell  in 
with  it, — simplest  thing  to  do  in  these  cases !" 

"Certainly." 

Thus  they  both  condescended  to  the  feather-headed 
capricious  woman,  dismissed  her,  and  felt  a  marked  ac- 
cess of  sincere  intimacy  on  a  plane  of  civilisation  ex- 
clusively masculine. 

In  the  succeeding  silence  of  satisfaction  and  relief 


THE  DISCOVERY  499 

could  be  heard  George,  in  the  drawing-room  above, 
practising  again  the  piano  part  of  a  Haydn  violin 
sonata  which  he  had  very  nervously  tried  over  with 
Ingpen  while  they  were  awaiting  dinner. 

Ingpen  said  suddenly: 

"I  say,  old  chap!  Why  have  you  never  mentioned 
that  you  happened  to  meet  a  certain  person  in  my 
room  at  Hanbridge  that  night  you  went  over  there 
for  me?"  He  frowned. 

Edwin  had  a  thrill,  pleasurable  and  apprehensive, 
at  the  prospect  of  a  supreme  confidence. 

"It  was  no  earthly  business  of  mine,"  he  answered 
lightly.  But  his  tone  conveyed:  "You  surely  ought 
to  be  aware  that  my  loyalty  and  my  discretion  are 
complete." 

And  Ingpen,  replying  to  Edwin's  tone,  said  with  a 
simple  directness  that  flattered  Edwin  to  the  heart: 

"Naturally  I  knew  I  was  quite  safe  in  your  hands. 
.  .  .  I've  reassured  the  lady."  Ingpen  smiled  slightly. 

Edwin  was  too  proud  to  tell  Ingpen  that  he  had  not 
said  a  word  to  Hilda,  and  Ingpen  was  too  proud  to  tell 
Edwin  that  he  assumed  as  much. 

At  that  moment  Hilda  came  into  the  room,  mur- 
muring a  carol  that  some  children  of  Stockbrook  had 
sung  on  the  doorstep  during  dinner. 

"Don't  be  afraid — I'm  not  going  to  interrupt.  I 
know  you're  in  the  thick  of  it,"  said  she  archly,  not 
guessing  how  exactly  truthful  she  was. 

Ingpen,  keeping  his  presence  of  mind  in  the  most 
admirable  manner,  rejoined  with  irony: 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  finished  already  ex- 
plaining to  Mrs.  Dummer  how  she  ought  to  run  my 
house  for  me !" 

"How  soon  do  you  mean  to  have  this  table  cleared?" 
asked  Hilda. 


500  THESE  TWAIN 

The  Christmas  dinner,  served  by  a  raw  girl  in  a 
large  bluish-white  pinafore,  temporarily  hired  to  as- 
sist Mrs.  Dummer  the  housekeeper,  had  been  a  good 
one.  Its  only  real  fault  was  that  it  had  had  a  little  too 
much  the  air  of  being  a  special  and  mighty  effort ;  and 
although  it  owed  something  to  Hilda's  parcels,  Ing- 
pen  was  justified  in  the  self-satisfaction  which  he  did 
not  quite  conceal  as  a  bachelor  host.  But  now,  under 
Hilda's  quizzing  gaze,  not  merely  the  table  but  the 
room  and  the  house  sank  to  the  tenth-rate.  The  coarse 
imperfections  of  the  linen  and  the  cutlery  grew  very  ap- 
parent; the  disorder  of  bottles  and  glasses  and  cups 
recalled  the  refectory  of  an  inferior  club.  And  the 
untidiness  of  the  room,  heaped  with  accumulations  of 
newspapers,  magazines,  documents,  books,  boxes  and 
musical-instrument  cases,  loudly  accused  the  solitary 
despot  whose  daily  caprices  of  arrangement  were  per- 
petuated and  rendered  sacred  by  the  ukase  that  noth- 
ing was  to  be  disturbed.  Hilda's  glinting  eyes  seemed 
to  challenge  each  corner  and  dark  place  to  confess 
its  shameful  dirt,  and  the  malicious  poise  of  her  head 
mysteriously  communicated  the  fact  that  in  the  past 
fortnight  she  had  spied  out  every  sinister  secret  in 
the  whole  graceless,  primitive  wigwam. 

"This  table,"  retorted  Ingpen  bravely,  "is  going 
to  be  cleared  when  it  won't  disturb  me  to  have  it 
cleared." 

"All  right,"  said  Hilda.  "But  Mrs.  Dummer  does 
want  to  get  on  with  her  washing-up." 

"Look  here,  madam,"  Ingpen  replied.  "You're  a 
little  ray  of  sunshine,  and  all  that,  and  I'm  the  first 
to  say  so ;  but  I'm  not  your^  husband."  He  made  a 
warning  gesture.  "Now  don't  say  you'd  be  sorry  for 
any  woman  I  was  the  husband  of.  Think  of  something 
more  original."  He  burst  out  laughing. 


THE  DISCOVERY  501 

Hilda  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  at  the  fad- 
ing day. 

"Please,  I  only  popped  in  to  say  it's  nearly  a  quarter 
to  three,  and  George  and  I  will  go  down  to  the  inn  and 
bring  the  dog-cart  up  here.  I  want  a  little  walk.  We 
shan't  get  home  till  dark  as  it  is." 

"Oh!  Chance  it  and  stop  for  tea,  and  all  will  be 
forgiven." 

"Drive  home  in  the  dark?  Not  much!"  Edwin  mur- 
mured. 

"He's  afraid  of  my  driving,"  said  Hilda. 

When  Edwin  and  Ingpen  were  alone  together  once 
more,  Ingpen's  expression  changed  back  instantly  to 
that  which  Hilda  had  disturbed,  and  Edwin's  impa- 
tience, which  had  uneasily  simmered  during  the  inter- 
ruption, began  to  boil. 

"Her  husband's  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  I  may  tell  you," 
said  Ingpen. 

"Whose?" 

"The  young  woman's  in  question." 

For  Edwin,  it  was  as  if  a  door  had  opened  in  a  wall 
and  disclosed  a  vast  unsuspected  garden  of  romance. 

"Really !" 

"Yes,  my  boy,"  Ingpen  went  on,  quietly,  with  re- 
straint, but  not  without  a  naive  and  healthy  pride  in 
the  sudden  display  of  the  marvellous  garden.  "And 
I  didn't  meet  her  at  a  concert,  or  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
or  anything  of  that  sort.  I  met  her  in  a  mill  at  Old- 
ham  while  I  was  doing  my  job.  He  was  the  boss  of  the 
mill;  I  walked  into  an  office  and  he  was  lying  on  the 
floor  on  the  flat  of  his  back,  and  she  was  wiping  her 
feet  on  his  chest.  He  was  saying  in  a  very  anxious 
tone:  'You  aren't  half  wiping  them.  Harder! 
Harder !'  That  was  his  little  weakness,  you  see.  He 
happened  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  a  doormat. 


502  THESE  TWAIN 

She  had  been  hiding  the  thing  for  weeks,  coming  with 
him  to  the  works,  and  so  on,  to  calm  him."  Ingpen 
spoke  more  quickly  and  excitedly:  "I  never  saw  a 
more  awful  thing  in  my  life !  I  never  saw  a  more 
awful  thing  in  my  life !  And  coming  across  it  sud- 
denly, you  see.  .  .  .  There  was  something  absolutely 
odious  in  him  lying  down  like  that,  and  her  trying  to 
soothe  him  in  the  way  he  wanted.  You  should  have 
seen  the  serious  expression  of  his  face,  simply  bursting 
with  anxiety  for  her  to  wipe  her  boots  properly  on 
him.  And  her  face  when  she  caught  sight  of  me.  Oh! 
Dreadful!  Dreadful!"  Ingpen  paused,  and  then  con- 
tinued calmly:  "Of  course  I  soon  tumbled  to  it.  For 
the  matter  of  that,  it  didn't  want  much  tumbling  to. 
He  went  raving  mad  the  same  afternoon.  And  he's 
been  more  or  less  raving  mad  ever  since." 

"What  a  ghastly  business.  .  .  .  Any  children?" 

"No,  thank  God!"  Ingpen  answered  with  fresh  emo- 
tion. "But  don't  you  forget  that  she's  still  the  wife 
of  that  lunatic,  and  he'll  probably  live  for  ever.  She's 
tied  up  to  him  just  as  if  she  was  tied  up  to  a  post. 
Those  are  our  Divorce  Laws !  Isn't  it  appalling?  Isn't 
it  inconceivable?  Just  think  of  the  situation  of  that 
woman!"  Ingpen  positively  glared  at  Edwin  in  the  in- 
tensity of  his  indignation. 

"Awful!"  Edwin  murmured. 

"Quite  alone  in  the  world,  you  know!"  said  Ingpen. 
"I'm  hanged  if  I  know  what  she'd  have  done  without  me. 
She  hadn't  a  friend — at  any  rate  she  hadn't  a  friend 
with  a  grain  of  sense.  Astonishing  how  solitary  some 
couples  are !  ...  It  aged  her  frightfully.  She's  much 
younger  than  she  looks.  Happily  there  was  a  bit  of 
money — enough  in  fact." 

Deeply  as  Edwin  had  been  impressed  by  his  ro- 
mantic discovery  of  a  woman  in  Ingpen's  room  at  Han- 


THE  DISCOVERY  503 

bridge,  he  was  still  more  impressed  by  it  now.  He  saw 
the  whole  scene  again,  and  saw  it  far  more  poetically. 
He  accused  himself  of  blindness,  and  also  of  a  cer- 
tain harshness  of  attitude  towards  the  woman.  He  en- 
dowed her  now  with  wondrous  qualities.  The  adven- 
ture, in  its  tragicalness  and  its  clandestine  tenderness, 
was  enchanting.  How  exquisite  must  be  the  relations 
between  Ingpen  and  the  woman  if  without  warning  she 
could  go  to  his  lair  at  night  and  wait  confidently  for 
his  return!  How  divine  the  surprise  for  him,  how  ar- 
dent the  welcome !  He  envied  Ingpen.  And  also  he 
admired  him,  for  Ingpen  had  obviously  conducted  the 
affair  with  worthy  expertise.  And  he  had  known  how 
to  win  devotion. 

With  an  air  of  impartiality  Ingpen  proceeded: 

"You  wouldn't  see  her  quite  at  her  best,  I'm  afraid. 
She's  very  shy — and  naturally  she'd  be  more  shy  than 
ever  when  you  saw  her.  She's  quite  a  different  woman 
when  the  shyness  has  worn  off.  The  first  two  or  three 
times  I  met  her  I  must  say  I  didn't  think  she  was  any- 
thing more  than  a  nice  well-meaning  creature, — you 
know  what  I  mean.  But  she's  much  more  than  that. 
Can't  play,  but  I  believe  she  has  a  real  feeling  for 
music.  She  has  time  for  reading,  and  she  does  read. 
And  she  has  a  more  masculine  understanding  than 
nearly  any  other  woman  I've  ever  come  across." 

"You  wait  a  bit!"  thought  Edwin.  This  simplicity 
on  the  part  of  a  notable  man  of  the  world  pleased  him 
and  gave  him  a  comfortable  sense  of  superiority. 

Aloud  he  responded  sympathetically: 

"Good!  .  .  .  Do  I  understand  she's  living  in  the 
Five  Towns  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ingpen,  after  a  hesitation.  He  spoke 
in  a  peculiar,  significant  voice,  carefully  modest.  The 
single  monosyllable  conveyed  to  Edwin:  "I  cannot 


504  THESE  TWAIN 

deny  it.  I  was  necessary  to  this  woman,  and  in  the  end 
she  followed  me!" 

Edwin  was  impressed  anew  by  the  full  revelation  of 
romance  which  had  concealed  itself  in  the  squalid  daili- 
ness  of  the  Five  Towns. 

"In  fact,"  said  Ingpen,  "you  never  know  your 
luck.  If  she'd  been  free  I  might  have  been  fool  enough 
to  get  married." 

"Why  do  you  say  a  thing  like  that?" 

"Because  I  think  I  should  be  a  fool  to  marry."  Ing- 
pen  tapping  his  front  teeth  with  his  finger-nail,  spoke 
reflectively,  persuasively,  and  with  calm  detachment. 

"Why?"  asked  Edwin,  persuasively  also,  but  ner- 
vously, as  though  the  spirit  of  adventure  in  the  search 
for  truth  was  pushing  him  to  fatal  dangers. 

"Marriage  isn't  worth  the  price — for  me,  that  is. 
I  daresay  I'm  peculiar."  Ingpen  said  this  quite  se- 
riously, prepared  to  consider  impartially  the  proposi- 
tion that  he  was  peculiar.  "The  fact  is,  my  boy,  I 
think  my  freedom  is  worth  a  bit  more  than  I  could 
get  out  of  any  marriage." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Edwin,  trying  to  speak 
with  the  same  dispassionate  conviction  as  Ingpen,  and 
scarcely  succeeding.  "But  look  what  you  miss !  Look 
how  you  live!"  Almost  involuntarily  he  glanced  with 
self-complacence  round  the  unlovely,  unseemly  room, 
and  his  glance  seemed  to  penetrate  ceilings  and  walls, 
and  to  discover  and  condemn  the  whole  charmless  house 
from  top  to  bottom. 

"Why?  What's  the  matter  with  it?"  Ingpen  re- 
plied uneasily;  a  slight  flush  came  into  his  cheeks. 
"Nobody  has  a  more  comfortable  bed  or  more  com- 
fortable boots  than  I  have.  How  many  women  can 
make  coffee  as  good  as  mine?  No  woman  ever  born 
can  make  first-class  tea.  I  have  all  I  want." 


THE  DISCOVERY  505 

"No,  you  don't.  And  what's  the  good  of  talking 
about  coffee,  and  tea,  and  beds?" 

"Well,  what  else  is  there  I  want  that  I  haven't 
got?  If  you  mean  fancy  cushions  and  draperies,  no, 
thanks!" 

"You  know  what  I  mean  all  right.  .  .  .  And  then 
'freedom'  as  you  say.  What  do  you  mean  by  free- 
dom?" 

"I  don't  specially  mean,"  said  Ingpen,  tranquil  and 
benevolent,  "what  I  may  call  physical  freedom.  I'd 
give  that  up.  I  like  a  certain  amount  of  untidiness, 
for  instance,  and  I  don't  think  an  absence  of  dust  is 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  world;  but  I  wouldn't  in  the 
least  mind  giving  all  that  up.  It  wouldn't  really 
matter  to  me.  What  I  won't  give  up  is  my  intellectual 
freedom.  Perhaps  I  mean  intellectual  honesty.  I'd 
give  up  even  my  intellectual  freedom  if  I  could  be  de- 
prived of  it  fairly  and  honestly.  But  I  shouldn't  be. 
There's  almost  no  intellectual  honesty  in  marriage. 
There  can't  be.  The  entire  affair  is  a  series  of  com- 
promises, chiefly  base  on  the  part  of  the  man.  The 
alternative  is  absolute  subjection  of  the  woman,  which 
is  offensive.  No  woman  not  absolutely  a  slave  ever 
hears  the  truth  except  in  anger.  You  can't  say  the 
same  about  men,  and  you  know  it.  I'm  not  blaming; 
I'm  stating.  Even  assuming  a  married  man  gets  a 
few  advantages  that  I  miss,  they're  all  purely  phys- 
ical  » 

"Oh  no !    Not  at  all." 

"My  boy,"  Ingpen  insisted,  sitting  up,  and  gazing 
earnestly  at  Edwin.  "Anatyse  them  down,  and  they're 
all  physical — all!  And  I  tell  you  I  won't  pay  the 
price  for  them.  I  won't.  I've  no  grievance  against 
women;  I  can  enjoy  being  with  women  as  much  as 
anybody,  but  I  won't — I  will  not — live  permanently  on 


506  THESE  TWAIN 

their  level.  That's  why  I  say  I  might  have  been  fool 
enough  to  get  married.  It's  quite  simple." 

"Hm!" 

Edwin,  although  indubitably  one  of  those  who  had 
committed  the  vast  folly  of  marriage,  and  therefore 
subject  to  Ingpen's  indictment,  felt  not  the  least  con- 
straint, nor  any  need  to  offer  an  individual  defence. 
Ingpen's  demeanour  seemed  to  have  lifted  the  argu- 
ment above  the  personal.  His  assumption  that  Edwin 
could  not  be  offended  was  positively  inspiring  to  Ed- 
win. The  fear  of  truth  was  exorcised.  Freedom  of 
thought  existed  in  that  room  in  England.  Edwin  re- 
flected :  "If  he's  right  and  I'm  condemned  accordingly, 
— well,  I  can't  help  it.  Facts  are  facts,  and  they're 
extremely  interesting." 

He  also  reflected: 

"Why  on  earth  can't  Hilda  and  I  discuss  like  that?" 

He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  profoundly  and  sadly 
knew  that  such  discussion  would  be  quite  impossible 
with  Hilda. 

The  red-hot  coals  in  the  grate  subsided  together. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing "  Ingpen  com- 
menced. 

He  was  stopped  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Dummer, 
a  fat  woman,  with  an  old  japanned  tray.  Mrs.  Dum- 
mer came  in  like  a  desperate  forlorn  hope.  Her  aged, 
grim,  and  yet  somewhat  hysterical  face  seemed  to  say : 
"I'm  going  to  clear  this  table  and  get  on  with  my  work, 
even  if  I  die  for  it  at  the  hands  of  a  brutal  tyrant." 
Her  gestures  as  she  made  a  space  for  the  tray  and 
set  it  down  on  the  table  were  the  formidable  gestures  of 
the  persecuted  at  bay. 

"Mrs.  Dummer,"  said  Ingpen,  in  a  weak  voice,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair,  "would  you  mind  fetching  me 
my  tonic  off  my  dressing-table?  I've  forgotten  it." 


THE  DISCOVERY  507 

"Bless  us!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dummer. 

As  she  had  hurried  out,  Ingpen  winked  placidly  at 
Edwin  in  the  room  in  which  the  shadows  were  already 
falling. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  dog-cart  arrived  at  the  front- 
door, Ingpen  did  seem  to  show  some  signs  of  exhaus- 
tion. Hilda  would  not  get  down.  She  sent  word  into 
the  house  by  George  that  the  departure  must  occur  at 
once.  Ingpen  went  out  with  Edwin,  plaintively  teased 
Hilda  about  the  insufferable  pride  of  those  who  sit  in 
driving-seats,  and  took  leave  of  her  with  the  most 
punctilious  and  chivalrous  ceremonial,  while  Hilda  in- 
scrutably smiling  bent  down  to  him  with  condescension 
from  her  perch. 

"I'll  sit  behind  going  home,  I  think,"  said  Edwin. 
"George,  you  can  sit  with  your  mother." 

"Tchik!     Tchik!"  Hilda  signalled. 

The  mare  with  a  jerk  started  off  down  the  misty  and 
darkening  road. 

rv 

The  second  and  major  catastrophe  occurred  very 
soon  after  the  arrival  in  Trafalgar  Road.  It  was 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  sunset  and  the  street 
lamps  were  lighted.  Unchpin,  with  gloomy  fatalism, 
shivered  obscurely  in  the  dark  porch,  waiting  to  drive 
the  dog-cart  down  to  the  stable.  Hilda  had  requested 
his  presence ;  it  was  she  also  who  had  got  him  to  bring 
the  equipage  up  to  the  house  in  the  morning.  She 
had  implied,  but  not  asserted,  that  to  harness  the  mare 
and  trot  up  to  Bleakridge  was  the  work  of  a  few  min- 
utes, and  that  a  few  minutes'  light  labour  could  make 
no  real  difference  to  linchpin's  Christmas  Day.  Ed- 
win, descrying  Unchpin  in  the  porch,  saw  merely  a  de- 
fenceless man  who  had  been  robbed  of  the  most  sacred 


508  THESE  TWAIN 

holiday  of  the  year  in  order  to  gratify  the  selfish  ca- 
price of  an  overbearing  woman.  When  asked  how  long 
he  had  been  in  the  porch,  Unchpin  firmly  answered 
that  he  had  been  there  since  three  o'clock,  the  hour 
appointed  by  Mrs.  Clayhanger.  Edwin  knew  nothing 
of  this  appointment,  and  in  it  he  saw  more  evidence  of 
Hilda's  thoughtless  egotism.  He  perceived  that  he 
would  be  compelled  to  stop  her  from  using  his  em- 
ployees as  her  private  servants,  and  that  the  prohi- 
bition would  probably  cause  trouble.  Hilda  demanded 
curtly  of  Unchpin  why  he  had  not  waited  in  the  warm 
kitchen,  according  to  instructions,  instead  of  catching 
his  death  of  cold  in  the  porch.  The  reply  was  that 
he  had  rung  and  knocked  fifteen  times  without  getting 
a  response. 

At  this  Hilda  became  angry,  not  only  with  Emmie, 
the  defaulting  servant,  but  with  the  entire  servant 
class  and  with  the  world.  Emmie,  the  new  cook,  and 
temporarily  the  sole  resident  servant,  was  to  have  gone 
to  Maggie's  for  her  Christmas  dinner,  and  to  have  re- 
turned at  half  past  two  without  fail  in  order  to  light 
the  drawing-room  fire  and  prepare  for  tea-making. 
But,  Maggie  at  the  last  moment  having  decided  to  go  to 
Clara's  for  the  middle  of  the  day,  Emmie  was  told  to 
go  with  her  and  be  as  useful  as  she  could  at  Mrs. 
Benbow's  until  a  quarter  past  two. 

"I  hope  you've  got  your  latch-key,  Edwin,"  said 
Hilda  threateningly,  as  if  ready  to  assume  that  with 
characteristic  and  inexcusable  negligence  he  had  left 
his  latch-key  at  home. 

"I  have,"  he  said  drily,  drawing  the  key  from  his 
pocket. 

"Oh!"  she  muttered,  as  if  saying:  "Well,  after 
all,  you're  no  better  than  you  ought  to  be."  And 
took  the  key. 


THE  DISCOVERY  509 

While  she  opened  the  door,  Edwin  surreptitiously 
gave  half  a  crown  to  linchpin,  who  was  lighting  the 
carriage-lamps. 

George,  with  the  marvellous  self-preserving  instinct 
of  a  small  animal  unprotected  against  irritated  prowl- 
ing monsters,  had  become  invisible. 

The  front-doorway  yawned  black  like  the  portal  of 
a  tomb.  The  place  was  a  terrible  negation  of  Christ- 
mas. Edwin  felt  for  the  radiator;  it  was  as  cold  to 
the  touch  as  a  dead  hand.  He  lit  the  hall-lamp,  and 
the  decorations  of  holly  and  mistletoe  contrived  by 
Hilda  and  George  with  smiles  and  laughter  on  Christ- 
mas Eve  stood  revealed  as  the  very  symbol  of  insin- 
cerity. Without  taking  off  his  hat  and  coat,  he  went 
into  the  unlighted  glacial  drawing-room,  where  Hilda 
was  kneeling  at  the  grate  and  striking  matches.  A 
fragment  of  newspaper  blazed,  and  then  the  flame  ex- 
pired. The  fire  was  badly  laid. 

"I'm  sick  of  servants !"  Hilda  exclaimed  with  fury. 
"Sick !  They're  all  alike !"  Her  tone  furiously  blamed 
Edwin  and  everybody. 

And  Edwin  knew  that  the  day  was  a  pyramid  of 
which  this  moment  was  the  dreadful  apex.  At  inter- 
vals during  the  drive  home  Hilda  had  talked  confiden- 
tially to  George  of  the  wondrous  things  he  and  she 
could  do  if  they  only  resided  in  the  country — things 
connected  with  flowers,  vegetables,  cocks,  hens,  ducks, 
cows,  rabbits,  horses.  She  had  sketched  out  the  life 
of  a  mistress  of  Ladderedge  Hall,  and  she  had  sketched 
it  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  dull,  hard  man  sitting  be- 
hind. Her  voice,  so  persuasive  and  caressing  to  George, 
had  been  charged  with  all  sorts  of  accusations  against 
the  silent  fellow  whose  back  now  and  then  collided  with 
hers.  She  had  exasperated  him.  She  had  wilfully  and 
deliberately  exasperated  him.  .  .  .  Her  treatment  of 


510  THESE  TWAIN 

Unchpln,  her  childish  outburst  concerning  servants, 
her  acutely  disagreeable  demeanour,  all  combined  now 
to  exhaust  the  poor  remainder  of  Edwin's  patience. 
Not  one  word  had  been  said  about  Ladderedge  Hall, 
but  Ladderedge  Hall  loomed  always  between  them. 
Deadly  war  was  imminent.  Let  it  come !  He  would 
prefer  war  to  a  peace  which  meant  for  him  nothing 
but  insults  and  injustice.  He  would  welcome  war.  He 
turned  brusquely  and  lit  the  chandelier.  On  the  table 
beneath  it  lay  the  writing-case  that  Hilda  had  given  to 
George,  and  the  edition  of  Matthew  Arnold  that  she  had 
given  to  Edwin,  for  a  Christmas  present.  One  of  Ed- 
win's Christmas  presents  to  her,  an  ermine  stole,  she  was 
wearing  round  her  neck.  Tragic  absurdities,  these 
false  tokens  of  love.  .  .  .  There  they  were,  both  of 
them  in  full  street  attire,  she  kneeling  at  the  grate 
and  he  standing  at  the  table,  in  the  dank  drawing- 
room  which  now  had  no  resemblance  to  a  home. 

Edwin  said  with  frigid  and  disdainful  malevolence: 

"I  wish  you  could  control  yourself,  Hilda.  The  fact 
that  a  servant's  a  bit  late  on  Christmas  Day  is  no 
reason  for  you  to  behave  like  a  spoilt  child.  You're 
offensive." 

His  words,  righteously  and  almost  murderously  re- 
sentful, seemed  to  startle  and  frighten  the  very  furni- 
ture, which  had  the  air  of  waiting,  enchanted,  for  dis- 
aster. 

Hilda  turned  her  head  and  glared  at  Edwin.  She 
threw  back  her  shoulders,  and  her  thick  eyebrows 
seemed  to  meet  in  a  passionate  frown. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  her  clear,  stinging  articulation. 
"That's  just  like  you,  that  is!  I  lend  my  servant  to 
your  sister.  She  doesn't  send  her  back, — and  it's  my 
fault!  I  should  have  thought  the  Benbows  twisted 
you  round  their  little  finger  enough,  without  you  hav- 


THE  DISCOVERY  511 

ing  to  insult  me  because  of  them.  Goodness  knows 
what  tricks  they  didn't  play  to  get  your  Aunt's  money 
— every  penny  of  it !  And  now  they  make  you  do  all 
the  work  of  the  estate,  for  their  benefit,  and  of  course 
you  do  it  like  a  lamb !  You  can  never  spare  a  minute 
from  the  works  for  me,  but  you  can  spare  hours  and 
hours  for  Auntie  Hamps's  estate  and  the  Benbows ! 
It's  always  like  that."  She  paused  and  spoke  more 
thickly :  "But  I  don't  see  why  you  should  insult  me  on 
the  top  of  it !" 

Her  features  went  awry.     She  sobbed. 

"You  make  me  ill !"  said  Edwin  savagely. 

He  walked  out  of  the  room  and  pulled  the  door  to. 

George  was  descending  the  stairs. 

"Where  are  you  going  to,  uncle?"  demanded  George, 
as  Edwin  opened  the  front-door. 

"I'm  going  down  to  see  Auntie  Maggie,"  Edwin 
answered,  forcing  himself  to  speak  very  gently.  "Tell 
your  mother  if  she  asks."  The  boy  guessed  the  situa- 
tion. It  was  humiliating  that  he  should  guess  it,  and 
still  more  humiliating  to  be  compelled  to  make  use  of 
him  in  the  fatal  affair. 


He  walked  at  a  moderate  pace  down  Trafalgar 
Road.  He  did  not  know  where  he  was  going.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  not  going  to  see  Maggie.  He  had  in- 
vented the  visit  to  Maggie  instantly  in  answer  to 
George's  question,  and  he  could  not  understand  why  he 
had  invented  it.  Maggie  would  be  at  Clara's;  and,  in 
a  misfortune,  he  would  never  go  to  Clara's ;  only  when 
he  was  successful  and  triumphant  could  he  expose  him- 
self to  the  Benbows. 

The  weather  was  damp  and  chill  without  rain.     The 


512  THESE  TWAIN 

chilliness  was  rather  tonic  and  agreeable  to  his  body, 
and  he  felt  quite  warm,  though  on  getting  down  from 
the  dog-cart  a  few  minutes  earlier  he  had  been  cold 
almost  to  the  point  of  numbness.  He  could  not  re- 
member how,  nor  when,  the  change  had  occurred. 

Every  street  lamp  was  the  centre  of  a  greenish-grey 
sphere,  which  presaged  rain  as  though  the  street-lamp 
were  the  moon.  The  pavements  were  greasy  with  black 
slime,  the  road  deep  in  lamp-reflecting  mire  through 
which  the  tram-lines  ran  straight  and  gleaming.  Far 
down  the  slope  a  cage  of  light  moving  obscurely  be- 
tween the  glittering  avenue  of  lamps  indicated  the 
steam-tram  as  it  lifted  towards  the  further  hill  into 
the  heart  of  the  town.  Where  the  lamps  merged  to- 
gether and  vanished,  but  a  little  to  the  left,  the  illu- 
minated dial  of  the  clock  in  the  Town  Hall  tower 
glowed  in  the  dark  heavens.  The  street  was  deserted; 
no  Signal  boys,  no  ragged  girls  staring  into  sweet 
shops,  no  artisans  returning  from  work,  no  rattling 
carts,  no  vehicles  of  any  kind  save  the  distant  tram. 
All  the  little  shops  were  shut;  even  the  little  green- 
grocer's shop,  which  never  closed,  was  shut  now,  and  its 
customary  winter  smell  of  oranges  and  apples  with- 
drawn. The  little  inns,  not  yet  open,  showed  through 
their  lettered  plate  windows  one  watching  jet  of  gas 
amid  blue-and-red  paper  festoons  and  bunches  of  holly. 
The  gloomy  fronts  of  nearly  all  the  houses  were  pierced 
with  oblongs  of  light  on  which  sometimes  appeared 
transient  shadows  of  human  beings.  A  very  few  other 
human  beings,  equally  mysterious,  passed  furtive  and 
baffling  up  and  down  the  slope.  Melancholy,  familiar, 
inexplicable,  and  piteous — the  melancholy  of  existence 
itself — rose  like  a  vapour  out  of  the  sodden  ground, 
ennobling  all  the  scene.  The  lofty  disc  of  the  Town 
Hall  clock  solitary  in  the  sky  was  somehow  so  heart- 


THE  DISCOVERY  513 

rending,  and  the  lives  of  the  people  both  within  and 
without  the  houses  seemed  to  be  so  woven  of  futility  and 
sorrow,  that  the  menace  of  eternity  grew  intolerable. 

Edwin's  brain  throbbed  and  shook  like  an  engine- 
house  in  which  the  machinery  was  his  violent  thoughts. 
He  no  longer  saw  his  marriage  as  a  chain  of  discon- 
nected episodes ;  he  saw  it  as  a  drama  the  true  meaning 
of  which  was  at  last  revealed  by  the  climax  now  upon 
him.  He  had  had  many  misgivings  about  it,  and  had 
put  them  away,  and  they  all  swept  back  presenting 
themselves  as  a  series  of  signs  that  pointed  to  inevitable 
disaster.  He  had  been  blind,  from  wilfulness  or  cow- 
ardice. He  now  had  vision.  He  had  arrived  at  hon- 
esty. He  said  to  himself,  as  millions  of  men  and 
women  have  said  to  themselves,  with  awestruck  calm: 
"My  marriage  was  a  mistake."  And  he  began  to  face 
the  consequences  of  the  admission.  He  was  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  attach  too  much  importance  to  the  immediate 
quarrel,  nor  even  to  the  half-suppressed  but  supreme 
dissension  concerning  a  place  of  residence.  He  as- 
sumed, even,  that  the  present  difficulties  would  some- 
how, with  more  or  less  satisfaction,  be  adjusted.  What, 
however,  would  not  and  could  not  be  adjusted  was  the 
temperament  that  produced  them.  Those  difficulties, 
which  had  been  preceded  by  smaller  difficulties,  would 
be  followed  by  greater.  It  was  inevitable.  To  hope 
otherwise  would  be  weakly  sentimental,  as  his  optimism 
during  the  vigil  in  Auntie  Hamps's  bedroom  had  been 
weakly  sentimental.  He  must  face  the  truth:  "She 
won't  alter  her  ways — and  I  shan't  stand  them."  No 
matter  what  their  relations  might  in  future  superficially 
appear  to  be,  their  union  was  over.  Or,  if  it  was  not 
actually  over,  it  soon  would  be  over,  for  the  forces  to 
shatter  it  were  uncontrollable  and  increasing  in 
strength. 


514  THESE  TWAIN 

"Of  course  she  can't  help  being  herself!55  he  said 
impartially.  "But  what's  that  got  to  do  with  me?" 

His  indictment  of  his  wife  was  terrific  and  not  to  be 
answered.  She  had  always  been  a  queer  girl.  On  the 
first  night  he  ever  saw  her,  she  had  run  after  him  into 
his  father's  garden,  and  stood  with  him  in  the  garden- 
porch  that  he  had  since  done  away  with,  and  spoken 
to  him  in  the  strangest  manner.  She  was  abnormal. 
The  dismal  and  perilous  adventure  with  George  Cannon 
could  not  have  happened  to  a  normal  woman.  She 
could  not  see  reason,  and  her  sense  of  justice  was  non- 
existent. If  she  wanted  a  thing  she  must  have  it.  In 
reality  she  was  a  fierce  and  unscrupulous  egotist,  in- 
capable of  understanding  a  point  of  view  other  than 
her  own.  Imagine  her  bursting  out  like  that  about 
Auntie  Hamps's  will!  It  showed  how  her  mind  ran. 
That  Auntie  Hamps  had  an  absolute  right  to  dispose 
of  her  goods  as  she  pleased;  that  there  was  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  for  Auntie  Hamps's  arrangements ;  that 
in  any  case  the  Benbows  were  not  to  blame;  that 
jealousy  was  despicable  and  the  mark  of  a  mean  mind; 
that  the  only  dignified  course  for  himself  was  to  exe- 
cute the  trust  imposed  upon  him  without  complaining, 
— these  things  were  obvious;  but  not  to  her!  No  hu- 
man skill  could  ever  induce  her  to  grant  them.  She  did 
not  argue, — she  felt;  and  the  disaster  was  that  she 
did  not  feel  rightly.  .  .  .  Imagine  her  trying  to  in- 
fluence Ingpen's  housekeeping,  to  worry  the  man, — 
she  the  guest  and  he  the  host !  What  would  she  say 
if  anybody  played  the  same  game  on  her?  .  .  . 

She  could  not  be  moderate.  She  expected  every  con- 
sideration from  others,  but  she  would  yield  none.  She 
had  desired  a  horse  and  trap.  She  had  received  it.  And 
how  had  she  used  the  gift?  She  had  used  it  in  defiance 
of  the  needs  of  the  works.  She  had  upset  everybody 


THE  DISCOVERY  515 

and  everything,  and  assuredly  linchpin  had  a  very  le- 
gitimate grievance.  .  .  .  She  had  said  that  she  could 
not  feel  at  home  in  her  own  house  while  the  house  be- 
longed to  Maggie.  Edwin  had  obediently  bought  the 
house, — and  now  she  wanted  another  house.  She 
scorned  her  husband's  convenience  and  preferences, 
and  she  wanted  a  house  that  was  preposterously  in- 
accessible. The  satisfaction  of  her  caprice  for  a  dog- 
cart had  not  in  the  slightest  degree  appeased  her  ego- 
tism. On  the  contrary  it  had  further  excited  her 
egotism  and  sharpened  its  aggressiveness.  And  by  what 
strange  infantile  paths  had  she  gone  about  the  enter- 
prise of  shifting  Edwin  into  the  country !  Not  a  frank 
word  to  Edwin  of  the  house  she  had  found  and  decided 
upon!  Silly  rumours  of  a  "surprise!"  And  she  had 
counted  upon  the  presence  of  Ingpen  to  disarm  Edwin 
and  to  tie  his  hands.  The  conspiracy  was  simply 
childish.  And  because  Edwin  had  at  once  shown  his 
distaste  for  her  scheme,  she  had  taken  offence.  Her 
acrimony  had  gradually  increased  throughout  the  day, 
hiding  for  a  time  under  malicious  silences  and  enig- 
matic demeanours,  darting  out  in  remarks  to  third 
persons  and  drawing  back,  and  at  last  displaying 
itself  openly,  cruelly,  monstrously.  The  injustice  of  it 
all  passed  belief.  There  was  no  excuse  for  Hilda,  and 
there  never  would  be  any  excuse  for  her.  She  was  im- 
possible; she  would  be  still  more  impossible.  He  did 
not  make  her  responsible ;  he  admitted  that  she  was  not 
responsible.  But  at  the  same  time,  with  a  disdainful 
and  cold  resentment,  he  condemned  and  hated  her. 

He  recalled  Ingpen's :    "I  won't  pay  the  price." 

"And  I  won't!"  he  said.     "The  end  has  come!" 

He  envied  Ingpen. 

And  there  flitted  through  his  mind  the  dream  of 
liberty — not  the  liberty  of  ignorant  youth,  but  liberty 


516  THESE  TWAIN 

with  experience  and  knowledge  to  use  it.  Ravishing 
prospect!  Marriage  had  advantages.  But  he  could 
retain  those  advantages  in  freedom.  He  knew  what  a 
home  ought  to  be ;  he  had  the  instinct  of  the  interior ; 
he  considered  that  he  could  keep  house  as  well  as  any 
woman,  and  better  than  most;  he  was  not,  in  that  re- 
spect, at  all  like  Ingpen,  who  suffered  from  his  inability 
to  produce  and  maintain  comfort.  .  .  .  He  remem- 
bered Ingpen's  historic  habitual  phrase  about  the 
proper  place  for  women, — "behind  the  veil."  It  was  a 
phrase  which  intensely  annoyed  women ;  but  nevertheless 
how  true !  And  Ingpen  had  put  it  into  practice.  Ing- 
pen,  even  in  the  banal  Five  Towns,  had  shown  the  way. 
.  .  .  He  saw  the  existence  of  males,  with  its  rationality 
and  its  dependableness,  its  simplicity,  its  directness, 
its  honesty,  as  something  ideal.  And  as  he  pictured 
such  an  existence — with  or  without  the  romance  of 
mysterious  and  interesting  creatures  ever  modestly 
waiting  for  attention  behind  the  veil — further  souvenirs 
of  Hilda's  wilful  naughtiness  and  injustice  rushed  into 
his  mind  by  thousands;  in  formulating  to  himself  his 
indictment  against  her,  he  had  overlooked  ninety  per 
cent  of  them ;  they  were  endless,  innumerable.  He  mar- 
shalled them  again  and  again,  with  the  fiercest  viru- 
lence, the  most  sombre  gloom,  with  sardonic,  bitter 
pleasure. 

In  the  hollow  where  Trafalgar  Road  begins  to  be 
known  as  Duck  Bank,  he  turned  to  the  left  and,  cross- 
ing the  foot  of  Woodisun  Bank,  arrived  at  one  of  the 
oldest  quarters  of  the  town,  where  St.  Luke's  Church 
stands  in  its  churchyard  amid  a  triangle  of  little  an- 
cient houses.  By  the  light  of  a  new  and  improved 
gas-lamp  at  the  churchyard  gates  could  be  seen  the 
dark  silhouette  of  the  Norman  tower  and  the  occa- 
sional white  gleam  of  gravestones. 


THE  DISCOVERY  517 

One  solitary  couple,  arm-in-arm,  and  bending  slightly 
towards  each  other,  came  sauntering  in  the  mud  past 
the  historic  National  Schools  towards  the  illumination 
of  the  lamp.  The  man  was  a  volunteer,  with  a  bril- 
liant vermilion  tunic,  white  belt,  and  black  trousers ;  he 
wore  his  hat  jauntily  and  carried  a  diminutive  cane; 
pride  was  his  warm  overcoat.  The  girl  was  stout  and 
short,  with  a  heavily  flowered  hat  and  a  dark 
amorphous  cloak;  under  her  left  arm  she  carried  a 
parcel.  They  were  absorbed  in  themselves.  Edwin 
discerned  first  the  man's  face,  in  which  was  a  gentle  and 
harmless  coxcombry,  and  then  the  girl's  face,  ecstatic, 
upward-gazing,  seeing  absolutely  naught  but  the  youth. 
...  It  was  Emmie's  face,  as  Edwin  perceived  after  a 
momentary  doubt  due  to  his  unfamiliarity  with  the 
inhabitants  of  his  own  house.  Emmie,  so  impatiently 
and  angrily  awaited  by  her  mistress,  had  lost  her  head 
about  a  uniform.  Emmie,  whose  place  was  in  the 
kitchen  among  saucepans  and  crockery,  dish-clouts  and 
brushes,  had  escaped  into  another  realm,  where  time 
is  not.  That  she  had  no  immediate  intention  of  re- 
turning to  her  kitchen  was  shown  by  the  fact  that  she 
was  moving  deliberately  in  a  direction  away  from  it. 
She  was  not  pretty,  for  Hilda  had  perforce  long  since 
ceased  to  insist  upon  physical  charm  in  her  servants. 
She  was  not  even  young, — she  was  probably  older  than 
the  adored  soldier.  But  her  rapt  ecstasy,  her-^fearful 
bliss,  made  a  marvellous  sight,  rendered  touching  by 
the  girl's  coarse  gawkiness. 

It  seemed  lamentable,  pathetic,  to  Edwin  that  des- 
tiny should  not  permit  her  to  remain  forever  in  that 
dream.  "Can  it  be  possible,"  he  thought,  "that  a 
creature  capable  of  such  surpassing  emotion  is  com- 
pelled to  cook  my  bacon  and  black  my  boots?" 

The    couple,    wordless,    strolled    onwards,    sticking 


518  THESE  TWAIN 

close  to  the  railings.  The  churchyard  was  locked,  but 
Emmie  and  the  soldier  were  doing  the  best  they  could 
to  satisfy  that  instinct  which  in  the  Five  Towns  seems 
to  drive  lovers  to  graves  for  their  pleasure.  The  little 
houses  cast  here  and  there  a  blind  yellow  eye  on  the 
silent  and  tranquil  scene.  Edwin  turned  abruptly  back 
into  Woodisun  Bank,  feeling  that  he  was  a  disturber 
of  the  peace. 

Suddenly  deciding  to  walk  up  to  Hillport  "for  the 
sake  of  exercise,"  he  quickened  his  pace.  After  a 
mile  and  a  half,  when  he  had  crossed  the  railway  at 
Shawport  and  was  on  the  Hillport  rise,  and  the  Five 
Towns  had  begun  to  spread  out  in  a  map  behind  him, 
he  noticed  that  he  was  perspiring.  He  very  seldom 
perspired,  and  therefore  he  had  the  conviction  that 
the  walk  was  "doing  him  good."  He  felt  exhilarated, 
and  moved  still  faster. 

His  mood  was  now  changed.  The  spectacle  of  Emmie 
and  the  soldier  had  thrown  him  violently  out  of  re- 
sentment into  wonder.  His  indignation  was  somewhat 
exhausted,  and  though  he  tried  again  and  again  to  flick 
it  back  into  full  heat  and  activity,  he  could  not.  He 
kept  thinking  of  the  moment  in  the  morning  when, 
standing  ready  to  jump  from  the  dog-cart,  his  wife  had 
said :  "Catch  me,  both  of  you,"  and  he  recalled  vividly 
the  sensation  of  her  acquiescence,  her  momentary  yield- 
ing— imperceptible  yet  unforgettable — as  he  supported 
her  strongly  in  his  arms;  and  with  this  memory  was 
mingled  the  smell  of  velvet.  Strange  that  a  woman  so 
harsh,  selfish  and  overbearing,  could  thus  contradict 
her  whole  character  in  an  instant  of  surrender !  Was 
she  in  that  gesture  confiding  to  him  the  deepest  secret? 
.  .  .  Rubbish !  But  now  he  no  longer  looked  down  on 
her  disdainfully.  Honesty  made  him  admit  that  it  was 
puerile  to  affect  disdain  of  an  individuality  so  powerful 


THE  DISCOVERY  519 

and  so  mysterious.  If  she  was  a  foe,  she  was  at  any 
rate  a  dangerous  fighter,  and  not  to  be  played  with. 
And  yet  she  could  be  a  trifle,  a  wisp  of  fragile  flesh 
in  his  arms ! 

He  saw  the  beatific  face  of  Emmie  against  the  church- 
yard gates  under  the  lamp.  .  .  .  Why  not  humour 
Hilda?  Why  not  let  her  plant  their  home  according 
to  her  caprice?  .  .  .  Certainly  not!  Never  would  he 
do  it!  Why  should  he?  Time  after  time  he  angrily 
rejected  the  idea.  Time  after  time  it  returned.  What 
did  it  matter  to  Hilda  where  she  lived?  And  had  he 
not  bought  their  present  house  solely  in  order  to  please 
her?  The  first  consideration  in  choosing  a  home  ought 
to  be  and  must  be  the  consideration  of  business  con- 
venience. .  .  .  Yet,  what  did  it  matter  to  him  where 
his  home  was?  (He  remembered  a  phrase  of  Ingpen's: 
"I  don't  live  on  that  plane.")  Could  he  not  adapt 
himself?  He  dreamt  of  very  rapid  transit  between  Lad- 
deredge  Hall  and  the  works.  Motor-cars  had  just  be- 
come lawful;  but  he  had  never  happened  to  see  one, 
though  he  had  heard  of  several  in  the  district,  or  pass- 
ing through.  His  imagination  could  not  rise  so  high  as 
a  motor-car.  That  he  could  ever  use  or  possess  one  did 
not  even  occur  to  him.  He  thought  only  of  a  fast- 
trotting  horse,  and  a  trap  with  indiarubber  tyres ;  him- 
self the  driver;  sometimes  Hilda  the  driver.  .  .  .  An 
equipage  to  earn  renown  in  the  district.  "Clayhanger's 
trap," — "He  drives  in  from  Ladderedge  in  thirty-five 
minutes.  The  horse  simply  won't  walk;  doesn't  know 
how  to!"  And  so  on.  He  had  heard  such  talk  of 
others.  Why  should  not  others  hear  it  of  him?  .  .  . 
Then,  the  pleasure,  the  mere  pleasure — call  it  sensual 
or  what  you  like — of  granting  a  caprice  to  the  ca- 
pricious creature!  If  a  thing  afforded  her  joy,  why 
not  give  it?  .  .  .  To  see  her  in  the  role  of  mistress  of 


520  THESE  TWAIN 

a  country-house,  delicately  horsey,  excited  about  char- 
itable schemes,  protecting  the  poor,  working  her  will 
upon  gardeners  and  grooms,  stamping  her  foot  in  the 
violence  of  her  resolution  to  have  her  own  way,  offering 
sugar  to  a  horse,  nursing  a  sick  dog!  Amusing; 
Agreeable!  .  .  .  And  all  that  activity  of  hers  a  mere 
dependence  of  his  own!  Flattering  to  his  pride!  .  .  . 
He  could  afford  it  easily,  for  he  was  richer  even  than 
his  wife  supposed.  To  let  the  present  house  ought  not 
to  be  difficult.  To  sell  it  advantageously  ought  not 
to  be  impossible.  In  this  connection,  he  thought,  though 
not  seriously,  of  Tom  Swetman,  who  had  at  last  got 
himself  engaged  to  one  of  those  Scandinavian  women 
about  whom  he  had  been  chaffed  for  years ;  Tom  would 
be  wanting  an  abode,  and  probably  a  good  one. 

He  was  carried  away  by  his  own  dream.  To  realise 
that  dream  he  had  only  to  yield,  to  nod  negligently, 
to  murmur  with  benevolent  tolerance :  "All  right.  Do 
as  you  please."  He  would  have  nothing  to  withdraw, 
for  he  had  uttered  no  refusal.  Not  a  word  had  passed 
between  them  as  to  Ladderedge  Hall  since  they  had 
quitted  it.  He  had  merely  said  that  he  did  not  like  it, 
— "poured  cold  water  on  it"  as  the  phrase  was.  True, 
his  demeanour  had  plainly  intimated  that  he  was  still 
opposed  in  principle  to  the  entire  project  of  living  in 
the  country ;  but  a  demeanour  need  not  be  formally  re- 
tracted; it  could  be  negatived  without  any  humilia- 
tion. .  .  . 

No,  he  would  never  yield,  though  yielding  seemed  to 
open  up  a  pleasant,  a  delicious  prospect.  He  could 
not  yield.  It  would  be  wrong,  and  it  would  be  dan- 
gerous, to  yield.  Had  he  not  already  quite  clearly 
argued  out  with  himself  the  whole  position?  And  yet 
why  not  yield?  .  .  .  He  was  afraid  as  before  a  temp- 
tation. 


THE  DISCOVERY  521 

He  re-crossed  the  railway,  and  crossed  Fowlea  Brook, 
a  boundary,  back  into  the  borough.  The  dark  path 
lay  parallel  with  the  canal,  but  below  it.  He  had  gone 
right  through  Hillport  and  round  Hillport  Marsh  and 
returned  down  the  flank  of  the  great  ridge  that  pro- 
tects the  Five  Towns  on  the  West.  He  could  not 
recollect  the  details  of  the  walk;  he  only  knew  that  he 
had  done  it  all,  that  time  and  the  miles  had  passed  with 
miraculous  rapidity,  and  that  his  boots  were  very 
muddy.  A  change  in  the  consistency  of  the  mud  caused 
him  to  look  up  at  the  sky,  which  was  clearing  and 
showed  patches  of  faint  stars.  A  frost  had  set  in, 
despite  the  rainy  prophecy  of  street-lamps.  In  a  few 
moments  he  had  climbed  the  short  steep  curving  slope 
on  to  the  canal-bridge.  He  was  breathless  and  very 
hot. 

He  stopped  and  sat  on  the  parapet.  In  his  school- 
days he  had  crossed  this  bridge  twice  a  day  on  the 
journey  to  and  from  Oldcastle.  Many  times  he  had 
lingered  on  it.  But  he  had  forgotten  the  little  episodes 
of  his  schooldays,  which  seemed  now  almost  to  belong 
to  another  incarnation.  He  did,  however,  recall  that 
as  a  boy  he  could  not  sit  on  the  parapet  unless  he 
vaulted  up  to  it.  He  thought  he  must  have  been  ridic- 
ulously small  and  boyish.  The  lights  of  Bursley,  Bleak- 
ridge,  Hanbridge  and  Cauldon  hung  round  the  eastern 
horizon  in  an  arc.  To  the  north  presided  the  clock  of 
Bursley  Town  Hall,  and  to  the  south  the  clock  of 
Cauldon  Church ;  but  both  were  much  too  far  off  to  be 
deciphered.  Below  and  around  the  Church  clock  the 
vague  fires  of  Cauldon  Bar  Ironworks  played,  and  the 
tremendous  respiration  of  the  blast-furnaces  filled  the 
evening.  Beneath  him  gleamed  the  foul  water  of  the 
canal.  .  .  .  He  trembled  with  the  fever  that  precedes 
a  supreme  decision.  He  trembled  as  though  he  was 


THESE  TWAIN 

about  to  decide  whether  or  not  he  would  throw  him- 
self into  the  canal.  Should  he  accept  the  country- 
house  scheme?  Ought  he  to  accept  it?  The  question 
was  not  simply  that  of  a  place  of  residence, — it  con- 
cerned all  his  life. 

He  admitted  that  marriage  must  be  a  mutual  ac- 
commodation. He  was,  and  always  had  been,  ready 
to  accommodate.  But  Hilda  was  unjust,  monstrously 
unjust.  Of  that  he  was  definitely  convinced.  .  .  . 
Well,  perhaps  not  monstrously  unjust,  but  very  unjust. 
How  could  he  excuse  such  injustice  as  hers?  He  ob- 
viously could  not  excuse  it.  ...  On  previous  occa- 
sions he  had  invented  excuses  for  her  conduct,  but  they 
were  not  convincing  excuses.  They  were  compromises 
between  his  intellectual  honesty  and  his  desire  for 
peace.  They  were,  at  bottom,  sentimentalism. 

And  then  there  flashed  into  his  mind,  complete,  the 
great  discovery  of  all  his  career.  It  was  banal;  it 
was  commonplace;  it  was  what  everyone  knew.  Yet 
it  was  the  great  discovery  of  all  his  career.  If  Hilda 
had  not  been  unjust  in  the  assertion  of  her  own  individ- 
uality, there  could  be  no  merit  in  yielding  to  her.  To 
yield  to  a  just  claim  was  not  meritorious,  though  to 
withstand  it  would  be  wicked.  He  was  objecting  to 
injustice  as  a  child  objects  to  rain  on  a  holiday.  In- 
justice was  a  tremendous  actuality!  It  had  to  be 
faced  and  accepted.  (He  himself  was  unjust.  At  any 
rate  he  intellectually  conceived  that  he  must  be  un- 
just, though  honestly  he  could  remember  no  instance 
of  injustice  on  his  part.)  To  reconcile  oneself  to  in- 
justice was  the  master  achievement.  He  had  read  it; 
he  had  been  aware  of  it;  but  he  had  never  really  felt 
it  till  that  moment  on  the  dark  canal-bridge.  He  was 
awed,  thrilled  by  the  realisation.  He  longed  ardently 
to  put  it  to  the  test.  He  did  put  it  to  the  test.  He 


THE  DISCOVERY  523 

yielded  on  the  canal-bridge.  And  in  yielding,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  victorious. 

He  thought  confidently  and  joyously: 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  beaten  by  Hilda !  And  I'm  not 
going  to  be  beaten  by  marriage.  Dashed  if  I  am!  A 
nice  thing  if  I  had  to  admit  that  I  wasn't  clever  enough 
to  be  a  husband!" 

He  was  happy,  but  somewhat  timorously  so.  He  had 
the  sense  to  suspect  that  his  discovery  would  scarcely 
transform  marriage  into  an  everlasting  Eden,  and  that 
serious  trouble  would  not  improbably  recur.  "Mar- 
riage keeps  on  all  the  time  till  you're  dead!"  he  said 
to  himself.  But  he  profoundly  knew  that  he  had  ad- 
vanced a  stage,  that  he  had  acquired  new  wisdom  and 
new  power,  and  that  no  danger  in  the  future  could 
equal  the  danger  that  was  past. 

He  thought: 

"I  know  where  I  am !" 

It  had  taken  him  years  to  discover  where  he  was. 
Why  should  the  discovery  occur  just  then?  He  could 
only  suppose  that  the  cumulative  battering  of  expe- 
rience had  at  length  knocked  a  hole  through  his  thick 
head,  and  let  saving  wisdom  in.  The  length  of  time" 
necessary  for  the  operation  depended  upon  the  thick- 
ness of  the  head.  Some  heads  were  impenetrable  and 
their  owners  came  necessarily  to  disaster.  His  head 
was  probably  of  an  average  thickness. 

When  he  got  into  Trafalgar  Road,  at  the  summit  of 
Bleakridge,  he  hesitated  to  enter  his  own  house,  on  ac- 
count of  the  acute  social  difficulties  that  awaited  him 
there,  and  passed  it  like  a  beggar  who  is  afraid.  One 
by  one  he  went  by  all  the  new  little  streets  of  cottages 
with  drawing-rooms — Millett  Street,  Wilcox  Street, 
Paul  Street,  Oak  Street,  Hulton  Street, — and  the  two 
old  little  streets,  already  partly  changed — Manor 


THESE  TWAIN 

Street  and  Higginbotham  Street.  Those  mysterious 
newcoming  families  from  nowhere  were  driving  him  out 
— through  the  agency  of  his  wife !  The  Orgreaves  had 
gone,  and  been  succeeded  by  excellent  people  with  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  fraternise.  There  were  rumours 
that  in  view  of  Tom  Swetnam's  imminent  defection  the 
Swetnam  household  might  be  broken  up  and  the  home 
abandoned.  The  Suttons,  now  that  Beatrice  Sutton 
had  left  the  district,  talked  seriously  of  going.  Only 
Dr.  Sterling  was  left  on  that  side  of  the  road,  and 
he  stayed  because  he  must.  The  once  exclusive  Ter- 
races on  the  other  side  were  losing  their  quality.  Old 
Darius  Clayhanger  had  risen  out  of  the  mass,  but  he 
was  fiercely  exceptional.  Now  the  whole  mass  seemed 
to  be  rising,  under  the  action  of  some  strange  leaven, 
and  those  few  who  by  intelligence,  by  manners,  or  by 
money  counted  themselves  select  were  fleeing  as  from  an 
inundation. 

Edwin  had  not  meant  to  join  in  the  exodus.  But 
he  too  would  join  it.  Destiny  had  seized  him.  Let 
him  be  as  democratic  in  spirit  as  he  would,  his  fate 
was  to  be  cut  off  from  the  democracy,  with  which,  for 
the  rest,  he  had  very  little  of  speech  or  thought  or 
emotion  in  common,  but  in  which,  from  an  implacable 
sense  of  justice,  he  was  religiously  and  unchangeably 
determined  to  put  his  trust. 

He  braced  himself,  and,  mounting  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  latchkey.  It  was  not 
there.  Hilda  had  taken  it  and  not  returned  it.  She 
never  did  return  it  when  she  borrowed  it,  and  probably 
she  never  would.  He  had  intended  to  slip  quietly  into 
the  house,  and  prepare  if  possible  an  astute  opening 
to  minimise  the  difficulty  of  the  scenes  which  must  inev- 
itably occur.  For  his  dignity  would  need  some  pro- 
tection. In  the  matter  of  his  dignity,  he  wished  that 


THE  DISCOVERY  525 

he  had  not  said  quite  so  certainly  to  Ingpen :  "I  shan't 
take  that  house." 

With  every  prim  formality,  Emmie  answered  his 
ring.  She  was  wearing  the  mask  and  the  black  frock 
and  the  white  apron  and  cap  of  her  vocation.  Not 
the  slightest  trace  of  the  beatified  woman  in  the 
flowered  hat  under  the  lamp  at  the  gates  of  the 
churchyard!  No  sign  of  a  heart  or  of  passion  or  of 
ecstasy!  Incredible  creatures — they  were  all  incred- 
ible! ' 

He  thought,  nervous: 

"I  shall  meet  Hilda  in  half  a  second." 

George  ran  into  the  hall,  wearing  his  new  green  shade 
over  his  eyes. 

"Here  he  is,  mother !"  cried  George.  "I  say,  nunks, 
Emmie  brought  up  a  parcel  for  you  from  Uncle  Albert 
and  Auntie  Clara.  Here  it  is.  It  wasn't  addressed  out- 
side, so  I  opened  it." 

He  indicated  the  hall-table,  on  which,  in  a  bed  of 
tissue  paper  and  brown  paper,  lay  a  dreadful  flat  ink- 
stand of  blue  glass  and  bronze,  with  a  card:  "Best 
wishes  to  Edwin  from  Albert  and  Clara." 

George  and  Edwin  gazed  at  each  other  with  under- 
standing. 

"Just  my  luck  isn't  it,  sonny?"  said  Edwin.  "It's 
worse  than  last  year's." 

"You  poor  dear!"  said  Hilda,  appearing,  all  smiles 
and  caressing  glances.  She  was  in  a  pale  grey  dress. 
"^Whatever  shall  you  do  with  it  ?  You  know  you'll  have 

to  put  it  on  view  when  they  come  up.  Emmie " 

to  the  maid  vanishing  into  the  kitchen — "We'll  have 
supper  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Edwin  to  himself,  with  light  but  sar- 
donic tolerance.  "Yes,  my  lady.  You're  all  smiles  be- 
cause you're  bent  on  getting  Ladderedge  Hall  out  of 


526  THESE  TWAIN 

me.    But  you  don't  know  what  a  near  shave  you've  had 
of  getting  something  else." 

He  was  elated.  The  welcome  of  his  familiar  home 
was  beautiful  to  him.  And  the  incalculable  woman  with 
a  single  gesture  had  most  unexpectedly  annihilated  the 
unpleasant  past  and  its  consequences.  He  could  yield 
upon  the  grand  contention  how  and  when  he  chose.  He 
had  his  acquiescence  waiting  like  a  delightful  surprise 
for  Hilda.  As  he  looked  at  her  lovingly,  with  all  her 
crimes  of  injustice  thick  upon  her,  he  clearly  realised 
that  he  saw  her  as  no  other  person  saw  her,  and  that 
because  it  was  so  she  in  her  entirety  was  indispensable 
to  him.  And  when  he  tried  to  argue  impartially  and 
aloofly  with  himself  about  rights  and  wrongs,  asinine 
reason  was  swamped  by  an  entirely  irrational  and  wise 
joy  in  the  simple  fact  of  the  criminal's  existence. 


VI 

In  the  early  spring  of  1897  there  was  an  evening 
party  at  the  Clayhangers'.  But  it  was  not  called  a 
party ;  it  was  not  even  called  a  reception.  The  theory 
of  the  affair  was  that  Hilda  had  "just  asked  a  few 
people  to  come  in,  without  any  fuss."  The  inhabitants 
of  the  Five  Towns  had,  and  still  have,  an  aversion  for 
every  sort  of  formal  hospitality,  or  indeed  for  any  hos- 
pitality other  than  the  impulsive  and  the  haphazard. 
One  or  two  fathers  with  forceful  daughters  agitated  by 
newly  revealed  appetites  in  themselves,  might  hire  a 
board-schoolroom  in  January,  and  give  a  dance  at 
which  sharp  exercise  and  hot  drinks  alone  kept  bodies 
warm  in  the  icy  atmosphere.  Also  musical  and  dra- 
matic societies  and  games  clubs  would  have  annual 
conversaziones  and  dances,  which  however  were  enter- 
prises of  cooperation  rather  than  of  hospitality.  Be- 


THE  DISCOVERY  527 

yond  these  semi-public  entertainments  there  was  almost 
nothing,  in  the  evening,  save  card-parties  and  the  small 
regular  reunions  of  old  friends  who  had  foregathered 
on  a  certain  night  of  the  week  for  whiskey  or  tea  and 
gossip  ever  since  the  beginning  of  time,  and  would 
continue  to  do  so  till  some  coffin  or  other  was  ordered. 
Every  prearranged  assemblage  comprising  more  than 
two  persons  beyond  the  family  was  a  "function" — a 
term  implying  both  contempt  and  respect  for  ceremo- 
nial; and  no  function  could  be  allowed  to  occur  with- 
out an  excuse  for  it, — such  as  an  anniversary.  The 
notion  of  deliberately  cultivating  human  intercourse  for 
its  own  sake  would  have  been  regarded  as  an  affectation 
approaching  snobbishness.  Hundreds  of  well-to-do  and 
socially  unimpeachable  citizens  never  gave  or  received 
an  invitation  to  a  meal.  The  reason  of  all  this  was 
not  meanness,  for  no  community  outside  America  has 
more  generous  instincts  than  the  Five  Towns ;  it  was 
merely  a  primitive  self-consciousness  striving  to  con- 
ceal itself  beneath  breezy  disdain  for  those  more  highly 
developed  manners  which  it  read  about  with  industry 
and  joy  in  the  weekly  papers,  but  which  it  lacked  the 
courage  to  imitate. 

The  break-up  of  the  Orgreave  household  had  b^en  a 
hard  blow  to  the  cult  of  hospitality  in  Bleakridge. 
Lane  End  House  in  the  old  days  was  a  creative  centre 
of  hospitality;  for  the  force  of  example,  the  desire  to 
emulate,  and  the  necessity  of  paying  in  kind  for  what 
one  has  permitted  oneself  to  receive  will  make  hosts  of 
those  who  by  their  own  initiative  would  never  have 
sent  out  an  invitation.  When  the  Orgreaves  vanished, 
sundry  persons  in  Bleakridge  were  discouraged, — and 
particularly  Edwin  and  Hilda,  whose  musical  evenings 
had  never  recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  first  one.  They  entertained  only  by  fits 


528  THESE  TWAIN 

and  starts,  when  Hilda  happened  to  remember  that  she 
held  a  high  position  in  the  suburb.  Hilda  was  handi- 
capped by  the  fact  that  she  could  not  easily  strike  up 
friendships  with  other  women.  She  had  had  one  friend, 
and  after  Janet's  departure  she  had  fully  confided  in 
no  woman.  Moreover  it  was  only  at  intervals  that 
Hilda  felt  the  need  of  companionship.  Her  present 
party  was  due  chiefly  to  what  Edwin  in  his  more  bitter 
moods  would  have  called  snobbishness, — to-wit,  partly 
a  sudden  resolve  not  to  be  outshone  by  the  Swetnams,, 
who  in  recent  years,  as  the  younger  generation  of  the 
family  grew  up,  had  beyond  doubt  increased  their  as- 
cendancy; and  partly  the  desire  to  render  memorable 
the  last  months  of  her  residence  in  Bleakridge. 

The  list  of  Hilda's  guests,  and  the  names  absent 
from  it,  gave  an  indication  of  the  trend  of  social  his- 
tory. The  Benbows  were  not  asked;  the  relations  of 
the  two  families  remained  as  friendly  as  ever  they 
were,  but  the  real  breach  between  them,  caused  by  pro- 
found differences  of  taste  and  intelligence,  was  now 
complete.  Maggie  would  have  been  asked,  had  she  not 
refused  in  advance,  from  a  motive  of  shyness.  In  all 
essential  respects  Maggie  had  been  annexed  by  Clara 
and  Albert.  She  had  given  up  Auntie  Hamps's  house 
(of  which  the  furniture  had  been  either  appropriated 
or  sold)  and  gone  to  live  with  the  Benbows  as  a 
working  aunt, — this  in  spite  of  Albert's  default  in  the 
matter  of  interest;  she  forewent  her  rights,  slept  in  a 
small  room  with  Amy,  paid  a  share  of  the  household 
expenses,  and  did  the  work  of  a  nursemaid  and  servant 
combined — simply  because  she  was  Maggie.  She  might,, 
had  she  chosen,  have  lived  in  magnificence  with  the 
Clayhangers,  but  she  would  not  face  the  intellectual 
and  social  strain  of  doing  so.  Jim  Orgreave  was  not 
invited;  briefly  he  had  become  impossible,  though  he 


THE  DISCOVERY  529 

was  still  well-dressed.  More  strange — Tom  Orgreave 
and  his  wife  had  only  been  invited  after  some  discussion, 
and  had  declined !  Tom  was  growing  extraordinarily 
secretive,  solitary,  and  mysterious.  It  was  reported 
that  Mrs.  Tom  had  neither  servant  nor  nursemaid, 
and  that  she  dared  not  ask  her  husband  for  money  to 
buy  clothes.  Yet  Edwin  and  Tom  when  they  met  in 
the  street  always  stopped  for  a  talk,  generally  about 
books.  Daisy  Marrion,  who  said  openly  that  Tom  and 
Mrs.  Tom  were  a  huge  disappointment  to  everybody, 
was  invited  and  she  accepted.  Janet  Orgreave  had  ar- 
rived in  Bursley  on  a  visit  to  the  Clayhangers  on  the 
very  day  of  the  party.  The  Cheswardines  were  asked, 
mainly  on  account  of  Stephen,  whose  bluff,  utterly  un- 
intellectual,  profound  good-nature,  and  whose  adora- 
tion of  his  wife,  were  gradually  endearing  him  to  the 
perceptive.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fearns  were  requested  to 
bring  their  daughter  Annunciata,  now  almost  mar- 
riageable, and  also  Mademoiselle  Renee  Souchon,  the 
French  governess,  newly  arrived  in  the  district,  of  the 
Fearns  younger  children.  Folks  hinted  their  astonish- 
ment that  Alma  Fearns  should  have  been  imprudent 
enough  to  put  so  exotic  a  woman  under  the  same  roof 
with  her  husband.  Ingpen  needed  no  invitation;  noth- 
ing could  occur  at  the  Clayhangers'  without  him.  Doc- 
tor Stirling  was  the  other  mature  bachelor.  Finally  in 
the  catalogue  were  four  Swetnams,  the  vigorous  and 
acute  Sarah  (who  was  a  mere  acquaintance),  aged 
twenty-five,  Tom  Swetnam,  and  two  younger  brothers. 
Tom  had  to  bring  with  him  the  prime  excuse  for  the 
party, — namely,  Miss  Manna  Host  of  Copenhagen,  to 
whom  Hilda  intended  to  show  that  the  Swetnams  were 
not  the  only  people  on  earth.  There  were  thus  eight 
women,  eight  men  (who  had  put  on  evening  dress  out  of 
respect  for  the  foreigner),  and  George. 


530  THESE  TWAIN 

At  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  musical  part  of  the  en- 
tertainment was  over,  Miss  Host  had  already  fully  se- 
cured for  herself  the  position  which  later  she  was  to 
hold  as  the  wife  of  Tom  Swetnam.  Bleakridge  had 
been  asked  to  meet  her  and  inspect  her,  and  the  opin- 
ion of  Bleakridge  was  soon  formed  that  Copenhagen 
must  be  a  wondrous  and  a  romantic  place  and  that 
Tom  Swetnam  knew  his  way  about.  In  the  earliest 
years  when  the  tourist  agencies  first  discovered  the  ad- 
vertising value  of  the  phrase  "Land  of  the  Midnight 
Sun,"  Tom  the  adventurous  had  made  the  Scandinavian 
round  trip,  and  each  subsequent  Summer  he  had  gone 
off  again  in  the  same  direction.  The  serpents  of  the 
Hanbridge  and  the  Bursley  Conservative  clubs,  and  of 
the  bar  of  the  Five  Towns  Hotel,  had  wagered  that 
there  was  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it.  There  was. 
He  had  met  her  at  Marienlyst,  the  watering-place  near 
Helsingor  (called  by  the  tourist  agencies  Elsinore). 
Manna  Host  was  twenty-three,  tall  and  athletically 
slim,  and  more  blonde  than  any  girl  ever  before  seen 
in  the  Five  Towns.  She  had  golden  hair  and  she  wore 
white.  It  was  understood  that  she  spoke  Danish, 
Swedish  and  Norwegian.  She  talked  French  with 
facility  to  Renee  Souchon.  And  Tom  said  that  her 
knowledge  of  German  surpassed  her  knowledge  of  either 
French  or  English.  She  spoke  English  excellently,  with 
a  quaint,  endearing  accent,  but  with  correctness.  Some- 
times she  would  use  an  idiom  (picked  up  from  the 
Swetnam  boys),  exquisitely  unaware  that  it  was 
not  quite  suited  to  the  lips  of  a  young  woman  in 
a  strange  drawing-room;  her  innocence,  however,  puri- 
fied it. 

She  sang  classical  songs  in  German,  with  dramatic 
force,  and  she  could  play  accompaniments.  She  was 
thoroughly  familiar  with  all  the  music  haltingly  per- 


THE  DISCOVERY  531 

formed  by  Ingpen,  Janet,  Annunciata,  and  young 
George.  Ingpen  was  very  seriously  interested  in  her 
views  thereon.  She  knew  about  the  French  authors 
from  whose  works  Renee  Souchon  chose  her  recitations. 
And  standing  up  at  the  buffet  table  in  the  dining- 
room,  she  had  fabricated  astounding  sandwiches  in  the 
Danish  style.  She  stated  that  Danish  cooks  reckoned 
ninety-three  sorts  of  sandwiches.  She  said  in  her  light, 
eager  voice,  apropos  of  cooking:  "There  is  one  thing 
I  cannot  understand.  I  cannot  understand  why  you 
English  throw  your  potatoes  to  melt  in  cold  water 
for  an  hour  before  you  boil  them."  "Nor  I!"  inter- 
jected Renee  Souchon.  No  other  woman  standing 
round  the  table  had  ever  conceived  the  propriety  of 
boiling  potatoes  without  first  soaking  them  in  cold 
water,  and  Manna  was  requested  to  explain.  "Be- 
cause," she  said,  "it — it  lets  go  the  salts  of  potassium 
which  are  so  necessary  for  the  pheesical  development 
of  the  body."  Whereupon  Tertius  Ingpen  had  been 
taken  by  one  of  his  long  crescendo  laughs,  a  laugh  that 
ended  by  his  being  bent  nearly  double  below  the  level 
of  the  table.  Everybody  was  much  impressed,  and 
Ingpen  himself  not  the  least.  Ingpen  wondered  what 
a  girl  so  complex  could  see  in  a  man  like  Tom  Swet- 
nam,  who,  although  he  could  talk  about  the  arts,  had 
no  real  feeling  for  any  of  them. 

But  what  impressed  the  company  even  more  than 
Miss  Host's  accomplishments  was  the  candid  fervour 
of  her  comprehensive  interest  in  life,  which  was  abso- 
lutely without  self-consciousness  or  fear.  She  talked 
with  the  same  disarming  ingenuous  eager  directness  to 
hard-faced  Charles  Fearns,  the  secret  rake ;  to  his  wife, 
the  ageing  and  sweetly-sad  mother  of  a  family;  to 
Renee  Souchon,  who  despite  her  plainness  and  her  ru- 
moured bigotry  seemed  to  attract  all  the  men  in  the 


532  THESE  TWAIN 

room  by  something  provocative  in  her  eye  and  the  car- 
riage of  her  hips ;  to  the  simple  and  powerful  Stephen 
Cheswardine;  to  Vera,  the  delicious  and  elegant  cat; 
to  Doctor  Stirling  with  his  Scotch  mysticism,  and  to 
Tertius  Ingpen  the  connoisseur  and  avowed  bachelor. 
She  spoke  to  Hilda,  Janet  and  Daisy  Marrion  as  one 
member  of  a  secret  sisterhood  to  other  members,  to 
Annunciata  as  a  young  girl,  and  to  George  as  an  ini- 
tiated sister.  She  left  them  to  turn  to  Edwin  with  a 
trustful  glance  as  to  one  whose  special  reliability  she 
had  divined  from  the  first.  "Have  a  liqueur,  Miss 
Host,"  Edwin  enjoined  her.  In  a  moment  she  was  sip- 
ping Chartreuse.  "I  love  it!"  she  murmured. 

But  somehow  beneath  all  such  freedoms  and  frank- 
ness she  did  not  cease  to  be  a  maiden  with  reserves  of 
mystery.  Her  assumption  that  nobody  could  misinter- 
pret her  demeanour  was  remarkable  to  the  English  ob- 
servers, and  far  more  so  to  Renee  Souchon.  All  gazed 
at  her  piquant  blonde  face,  scarcely  pretty,  with  its 
ardent  restless  eyes,  and  felt  the  startling  compliment 
of  her  quick,  searching  sympathy.  And  she,  tinglingly 
aware  of  her  success,  proved  easily  equal  to  the  ordeal 
of  it.  Only  at  rare  intervals  did  she  give  a  look  at 
the  betrothed,  as  if  for  confirmation  of  her  security. 
As  for  Tom,  he  was  positively  somewhat  unnerved  by 
the  brilliance  of  the  performance.  He  left  her  alone, 
without  guidance,  as  a  ring-master  who  should  stand 
aside  during  a  turn  and  say :  "See  this  marvel !  I  am 
no  longer  necessary."  When  people  glanced  at  him 
after  one  of  her  effects,  he  would  glance  modestly 
away,  striving  to  hide  from  them  his  illusion  that  he 
himself  had  created  the  bewitching  girl.  At  half  past 
eleven,  when  the  entire  assemblage  passed  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, she  dropped  on  to  the  piano-stool  and  began 
a  Waldteufel  waltz  with  irresistible  seductiveness. 


THE  DISCOVERY  533 

Hilda's  heart  leaped.  In  a  minute  the  carpet  was  up, 
and  the  night,  which  all  had  supposed  to  be  at  an 
end,  began. 

At  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  party  was 
moving  strongly  by  its  own  acquired  momentum  and 
needed  neither  the  invigoration  nor  the  guidance  which 
hosts  often  are  compelled  to  give.  Hilda,  having  fin- 
ished a  schottische  with  Dr.  Stirling,  missed  Janet 
from  the  drawing-room.  Leaving  the  room  in  search 
of  her,  she  saw  Edwin  with  Tom  Swetnam  and  the 
glowing  Manna  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"Hello!"  she  called  out.  "What  are  you  folks 
doing?" 

Manna's  light  laugh  descended  like  a  shower  of  crys- 
tals. 

"Just  taking  a  constitutional,"  Edwin  answered. 

Hilda  waved  to  them  in  passing.  She  was  extremely 
elated.  Among  other  agreeable  incidents  was  the  suc- 
cess of  her  new  black  lace  frock.  Edwin's  voice  pleased 
her, — it  was  so  calm,  wise,  and  kind,  and  at  the  same 
time  mysteriously  ironical.  She  occasionally  admitted, 
at  the  sound  of  that  voice  when  Edwin  was  in  high 
spirits,  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  explore  com- 
pletely the  more  withdrawn  arcana  of  his  nature.  He 
had  behaved  with  perfection  that  evening.  She  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  the  basis  of  the  evening,  that  with- 
out him  she  could  never  have  such  triumphs.  It  was 
strange  that  a  man  by  spending  so  many  hours  per 
day  at  a  works  could  create  the  complicated  ease  and 
luxury  of  a  home.  She  perceived  how  steadily  and 
surely  he  had  progressed  since  their  marriage,  and  how 
his  cautiousness  always  justified  itself,  and  how  he  had 
done  all  that  he  had  said  he  would  do.  And  she  had  a 
vision  of  that  same  miraculous  creative  force  of  his  at 
work,  by  her  volition,  in  the  near  future  upon  Lad- 


534  THESE  TWAIN 

deredge  Hall.  Her  mood  became  a  strange  compound 
of  humility  before  him  and  of  self-confident  pride  in 
her  own  power  to  influence  him. 

In  the  boudoir  Janet  was  reclining  in  the  sole  easy 
chair.  Dressed  in  grey  (she  had  abandoned  white), 
she  was  as  slim  as  ever,  and  did  not  look  her  age.  With 
face  flushed,  eyes  glinting  under  drooping  lids,  and 
bosom  heaving  rather  quickly,  she  might  have  passed 
in  the  half-light  for  a  young  married  woman  still  under 
the  excitement  of  matrimony,  instead  of  a  virgin  of 
forty. 

"I  was  so  done  up  I  had  to  come  and  hide  myself!" 
she  murmured  in  a  dreamy  tone. 

"Well,  of  course  you've  had  the  journey  to-day  and 
everything  .  .  ." 

"I  never  did  come  across  such  a  dancer  as  Charles 
Fearns !"  Janet  went  on. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  standing  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  with  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece.  "He's  a  great 
dancer — or  at  least  he  makes  you  think  so.  But  I'm 
sure  he's  a  bad  man." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is !"  Janet  agreed  with  a  sigh. 

Neither  of  the  women  spoke  for  a  moment,  and  each 
looked  away. 

Through  the  closed  door  came  the  muffled  sound  of* 
the  piano,  played  by  Annunciata.  No  melody  was  dis- 
tinguishable,— only  the  percussion  of  the  bass  chords 
beating  out  the  time  of  a  new  mazurka.  It  was  as  if 
the  whole  house  faintly  but  passionately  pulsed  in  the 
fever  of  the  dance. 

"I  see  you've  got  a  Rossetti,"  said  Janet  at  last, 
fingering  a  blue  volume  that  lay  on  the  desk. 

"Edwin  gave  it  me,"  Hilda  replied.  "He's  grad- 
ually giving  me  all  my  private  poets.  But  somehow 
I  haven't  been  able  to  read  much  lately.  I  expect  it's 


THE  DISCOVERY  535 

the  idea  of  moving  into  the  country  that  makes  me 
restless." 

"But  is  it  settled,  all  that?" 

"Of  course  it's  settled,  my  dear.  I'm  determined  to 
take  him  away — "  Hilda  spoke  of  her  husband  as  of 
a  parcel  or  an  intelligent  bear  on  a  chain,  as  loving 
wives  may — "right  out  of  all  this.  I'm  sure  it  will  be 
a  good  thing  for  him.  He  doesn't  mind,  really.  He's 
promised  me.  Only  he  wants  to  make  sure  of  either 
selling  or  letting  this  house  first.  He's  always  very 
cautious,  Edwin  is.  He  simply  hates  doing  a  thing 
straight  off." 

"Yes,  he  is  rather  that  way  inclined,"  said  Janet. 

"I  wanted  him  to  take  Ladderedge  at  once,  even  if  we 
didn't  move  into  it.  Anyhow  we  couldn't  move  into  it 
immediately,  because  of  the  repairs  and  things.  They'll 
take  a  fine  time,  I  know.  We  can  get  it  for  sixty  pounds 
a  year.  And  what's  sixty  pounds  more  or  less  to  Ed- 
win? It's  no  more  than  what  the  rent  of  this  house 
would  be.  But  no,  he  wouldn't!  He  must  see  where 
he  stands  with  this  house  before  he  does  anything  else ! 
You  can't  alter  him,  you  know !" 

The  door  was  cautiously  pushed,  and  Ingpen  en- 
tered. 

"So  you're  discussing  her !"  he  said,  low,  with  a  sa- 
tiric grin. 

"Discussing  who?"  Hilda  sharply  demanded. 

"You  know." 

"Tertius,"  said  Hilda,  "you're  worse  than  a 
woman." 

He  giggled  with  delight. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  to  be  very  severe." 

"If  you  want  to  know,  we  were  talking  about  Lad- 
deredge." 
"So  apologise!"  added  Janet,  sitting  up. 


536  THESE  TWAIN 

Ingpen's  face  straightened,  and  he  began  to  tap  his 
teeth  with  his  thumb. 

"Curious!  That's  just  what  I  came  in  about.  I've 
been  trying  to  get  a  chance  to  tell  you  all  the  evening. 
There's  somebody  else  after  Ladderedge,  a  man  from 
Axe.  He's  been  to  look  over  it  twice  this  week.  I 
thought  I'd  tip  you  the  wink." 

Hilda  stood  erect,  putting  her  shoulders  back. 

"Have  you  told  Edwin?"  she  asked  very  curtly. 

"Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  it  was  only  a  dodge  of  the  house-agent's 
to  quicken  things  up." 

"And  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"Well,  I  doubt  it,"  Ingpen  answered  apprehensively. 
"That's  why  I  wanted  to  warn  you — his  lordship  being 
what  he  is." 

Voices,  including  Edwin's,  could  be  heard  in  the  hall. 

"Here,  I'm  not  going  to  be  caught  conspiring  with 
you!"  Ingpen  whispered.  "It's  more  than  my  place 
is  worth."  And  he  departed. 

The  voices  receded,  and  Hilda  noiselessly  shut  the 
door.  Everything  was  now  changed  for  her  by  a  tre- 
mendous revulsion.  The  beating  of  the  measure  of  the 
mazurka  seemed  horrible  and  maddening.  Her  thought 
was  directed  upon  Edwin  with  the  cold  fury  of  which 
only  love  is  capable.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  some 
rival  was  nibbling  at  Ladderedge,  but  it  was  his  fault 
that  Ladderedge  should  still  be  in  peril.  She  saw  all 
her  grandiose  plan  ruined.  She  felt  sure  that  the  rival 
was  powerful  and  determined,  and  that  Edwin  would 
let  him  win,  either  by  failing  to  bid  against  him,  or  by 
mere  shilly-shallying.  Ladderedge  was  not  the  only 
suitable  country  residence  in  the  county;  there  were 
doubtless  many  others;  but  Ladderedge  was  just  what 


THE  DISCOVERY  537 

she  wanted,  and — more  important  with  her — it  had  be- 
come a  symbol.  She  had  a  misgiving  that  if  they  did 
not  get  Ladderedge  they  would  remain  in  Trafalgar 
Road,  Bursley,.for  ever  and  ever.  Yet,  angry  and  des- 
perate though  she  was,  she  somehow  did  not  accuse 
and  arraign  Edwin — any  more  than  she  would  have  ac- 
cused and  arraigned  a  climate.  He  was  in  fact  the 
climate  in  which  she  lived.  A  moment  ago  she  had 
said :  "You  can't  alter  him !"  But  now  all  the  energy 
of  her  volition  cried  out  that  he  must  be  altered. 

"My  girl,"  she  said,  turning  to  Janet,  "do  you 
think  you  can  stand  a  scene  to-morrow?" 

"A  scene?"  Janet  repeated  the  word  guardedly.  The 
look  on  Hilda's  face  somewhat  alarmed  her. 

"Between  Edwin  and  me.  I'm  absolutely  determined 
that  we  shall  take  Ladderedge,  and  I  don't  care  how 
much  of  a  row  we  have  over  it." 

"It  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that?"  Janet  softly  murmured, 
with  her  skill  to  soothe. 

"Yes  it  is !"  said  Hilda  violently. 

"I  was  wondering  the  other  day,  after  one  of  your 
letters,"  Janet  proceeded  gently,  "why  after  all  you 
were  so  anxious  to  go  into  the  country.  I  thought  you 
wanted  Edwin  to  be  on  the  Town  Council  or  something 
of  that  kind.  How  can  he  do  that  if  you're  right 
away  at  a  place  like  Stockbrook?" 

"So  I  should  like  him  to  be  on  the  Town  Council! 
But  all  I  really  want  is  to  get  him  away  from  his  busi- 
ness. You  don't  know,  Janet !"  she  spoke  bitterly,  and 
with  emotion.  "Nobody  knows  except  me.  He'll  soon 
be  the  slave  of  his  business  if  he  keeps  on.  Oh !  I  don't 
mean  he  stays  at  nights  at  it.  He  scarcely  ever  does. 
But  he's  always  thinking  about  it.  He  simply  can't 
bear  being  a  minute  late  for  it,  everything  must  give 
way  to  it, — he  takes  that  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 


538  THESE  TWAIN 

that's  what  annoys  me,  especially  as  there's  no  reason 
for  it,  seeing  how  much  he  trusts  Big  James  and  Simp- 
son. I  believe  he'd  do  anything  for  Big  James.  He'd 
listen  to  Big  James  far  sooner  than  he'd  listen  to  me. 
.  .  .  Disagreeable  fawning  old  man,  and  quite  stupid. 
Simpson  isn't  so  bad.  I  tell  you  Edwin  only  looks  on 
his  home  as  a  nice  place  to  be  quiet  in  when  he  isn't  at 
the  works.  I've  never  told  him  so,  and  I  don't  think  he 
suspects  it,  but  I  will  tell  him  one  of  these  days.  He's 
very  good,  Edwin  is,  in  all  the  little  things.  He  al- 
ways tries  to  be  just.  But  he  isn't  just  in  the  big  thing. 
He's  most  frightfully  unjust.  I  sometimes  wonder 
where  he  imagines  I  come  in.  Of  course  he'd  do  any 
mortal  thing  for  me — except  spare  half  a  minute  from 
the  works.  .  .  .  What  do  I  care  about  money  ?  I  don't 
care  that  much  about  money.  When  there's  money  I 
can  spend  it,  that's  all.  But  I'd  prefer  to  be  poor,  and 
him  to  be  rude  and  cross  and  impatient — which  he 
scarcely  ever  is — than  have  this  feeling  all  the  time 
that  it's  the  works  first,  and  everything  else  second. 
I  don't  mind  for  myself — no,  really  I  don't,  at  least 
very  little!  But  I  do  mind  for  him.  I  call  it  humili- 
ating for  a  man  to  get  like  that.  It  puts  everything 
upside  down.  Look  at  Stephen  Cheswardine,  for  in- 
stance. There's  a  pretty  specimen!  And  Edwin'll 
be  as  bad  as  him  soon." 

"But  everyone  says  how  fond  Stephen  is  of  his 
wife!" 

"And  isn't  Edwin  fond  of  me?  Stephen  Cheswardine 
despises  his  wife — only  he  can't  do  without  her.  That's 
all.  And  he  treats  her  accordingly.  And  I  shall  be 
the  same." 

"Oh!    Hilda!' 

"Yes,  I  shall.  Yes,  I  shall.  But  I  won't  have  it. 
I'd  as  lief  be  married  to  a  man  like  Charles  Fearns. 


THE  DISCOVERY  539 

He  isn't  a  slave  to  his  business  anyhow.  I  shall  get 
Edwin  further  away.  And  when  I've  got  him  away 
I  shall  see  he  doesn't  go  to  the  works  on  Saturdays, 
too.  I've  quite  made  up  my  mind  about  that.  And  if 
he  isn't  on  the  Town  Council  he  can  be  on  the  County 
Council — that's  quite  as  good,  I  hope !" 

Never  before  had  Hilda  spoken  so  freely  to  anyone, 
not  even  to  Janet.  Fierce  pride  had  always  kept  her 
self-contained.  But  now  she  had  no  feeling  of  shame  at 
her  outburst.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes — and  yet  she 
faced  Janet,  making  no  effort  to  hide  them. 

"My  dear !"  breathed  the  deprecating  Janet,  shocked 
out  of  her  tepid  virginal  calm  by  a  revelation  of  con- 
jugal misery  such  as  had  never  been  vouchsafed  to 
her.  She  was  thinking:  "How  can  the  poor  thing  face 
her  guests  after  this?  Everybody  will  see  that  some- 
thing's happened — it  will  be  awful!  She  really  ought 
to  think  of  her  position." 

There  was  a  silence. 

The  door  opened  with  a  sharp  sound,  and  Hilda 
turned  away  her  head  as  from  the  suddenly  visible 
mouth  of  a  cannon.  The  music  could  be  heard  plainly, 
and  beneath  it  the  dull  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  bare 
boards  of  the  drawing-room.  Manna  Host  came  in 
radiant,  followed  by  Edwin  and  Tom  Swetnam. 

"Well,  Hilda,"  said  Edwin,  with  a  slight  timid  con- 
straint. "I've  got  rid  of  your  house  for  you.  Here 
are  the  deluded  victims." 

"We  have  seen  every  corner  of  it,  Mrs.  Clayhanger," 
said  Manna  Host,  enthusiastically.  "It  is  lovely.  But 
how  can  you  wish  to  leave  it?  It  is  so  practical!" 

Perceiving  the  agitation  of  Hilda's  face,  Edwin 
added  in  a  lower  voice  to  his  wife: 

"I  thought  I  wouldn't  say  anything  until  it  was  set- 
tled, for  fear  you  might  be  let  in  for  a  disappointment. 


540  THESE  TWAIN 

He'll  buy  it  if  I  leave  fifteen  hundred  on  mortgage. 
So  I  shall.  But  of  course  he  wanted  her  to  have  a 
good  look  at  it  first." 

"How  unfair  I  am!"  thought  Hilda,  as  she  made 
some  banal  remark  to  Miss  Host.  "Don't  I  know  I 
can  always  rely  on  him?" 

"Mr.  Clayhanger  made  us  promise  not  to "  Miss 

Host  began  to  explain. 

"It  was  just  like  him!"  Hilda  interrupted,  smiling. 

She  had  a  strong  desire  to  jump  at  Edwin  and  kiss 
him.  She  was  saved.  Her  grandiose  plan  would  pro- 
ceed. The  house  sold,  Edwin  was  bound  to  secure 
Ladderedge  Hall  against  no  matter  what  rival ;  and  he 
would  do  it.  But  it  was  the  realisation  of  her  power 
over  her  husband  that  gave  her  the  prof oundest  j  oy . 

About  an  hour  later,  when  everyone  felt  that  the 
party  was  over,  the  guests,  reluctant  to  leave,  and  ex- 
cited afresh  by  the  news  that  the  house  had  changed 
hands  during  the  revel,  were  all  assembled  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. A  few  were  seated  on  the  chairs  which,  with 
the  tables,  had  been  pushed  against  the  walls.  George 
had  squatted  on  the  carpet  rolled  up  into  the  hearth, 
where  the  fire  was  extinct;  he  was  not  wearing  his 
green  shade.  The  rest  were  grouped  around  Manna 
Host  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Miss  Host,  the  future  mistress  of  the  abode,  was  now 
more  than  ever  the  centre  of  regard.  Apparently  as 
fresh  as  at  the  start,  and  picking  delicately  at  a  sweet 
biscuit,  the  flushed  blonde  stood  answering  questions 
about  her  views  on  England  and  especially  on  the  Five 
Towns.  She  was  quite  sure  of  herself,  and  utterly 
charming  in  her  confidence.  Annunciata  Fearns  envied 
her  acutely.  The  other  women  were  a  little  saddened 
by  the  thought  of  all  the  disillusions  that  inevitably  lay 
before  her.  It  was  touching  to  see  her  glance  at  Tom 


THE  DISCOVERY  541 

Swetnam,  convinced  that  she  understood  him  to  the 
core,  and  in  him  all  the  psychology  of  his  sex. 

"Everybody  knows,"  she  was  saying,  "that  the  Eng- 
lish are  the  finest  nation,  and  I  think  the  Five  Towns 
are  much  more  English  than  London.  That's  why  I 
adore  the  Five  Towns.  You  do  not  know  how  English 
you  are  here.  It  makes  me  laugh  because  you  are  so 
English,  and  you  do  not  know  it.  I  love  you." 

"You're  flattering  us,"  said  Stephen  Cheswardine, 
enchanted  with  the  girl. 

Everybody  waited  in  eager  delight  for  her  next 
words.  Such  tit-bits  of  attention  and  laudation  did 
not  often  fall  to  the  district.  It  occurred  to  people 
that  after  all  the  local  self-conceit  might  not  be  en- 
tirely unjustified. 

"Ah !"  Manna  pouted.     "But  you  have  spots !" 

"Spots !"  repeated  young  Paul  Swetnam,  amid  a  gen- 
eral laugh. 

She  turned  to  him:  "You  said  there  were  no  spots 
on  Knype  Football  Club,  did  you  not?  Well,  there 
is  a  spot  on  you  English.  You  are  dreadfully  exas- 
perating to  us  Danes.  Oh,  I  mean  it!  You  are  exas- 
perating because  you  will  not  show  your  feelings!" 

"Tom,  that  must  be  one  for  you,"  said  Charlie 
Fearns. 

"We're  too  proud,"  said  Dr.  Stirling. 

"No,"  replied  Manna  maliciously.  "It  is  not  pride. 
You  are  afraid  to  show  your  feelings.  It  is  because 
you  are  cowards — in  that!" 

"We  aren't !"  cried  Hilda,  inspired.  And  yielding  to 
the  temptation  which  had  troubled  her  incessantly  ever 
since  she  left  the  boudoir,  she  put  her  arms  round  Ed- 
win and  kissed  him.  "So  there !" 

"Loud  applause !"  said  young  George  on  the  roll  of 
carpet.  He  said  it  kindly,  but  with  a  certain  superi- 


542  THESE  TWAIN 

ority,  perhaps  due  to  the  facts  that  he  was  wearing 
a  man's  "long  trousers"  for  the  first  time  that  night, 
and  that  he  regarded  himself  as  already  almost  a 
Londoner.  There  was  some  handclapping. 

Edwin's  eyes  had  seduced  Hilda.  Looking  at  them 
surreptitiously  she  had  suddenly  recalled  another  of  his 
tricks, — tricks  of  goodness.  When  she  had  told  him  one 
evening  that  Minnie  was  prematurely  the  mother  of  a 
girl,  he  had  said :  "Well,  we'll  put  £130  in  the  savings 
bank  for  the  kid."  "£130?  Whatever  are  you  talk- 
ing about?"  "£130.  I  received  it  from  America  this 
very  morning  as  ever  is."  And  he  showed  her  a  draft 
on  Brown,  Shipley  &  Co.  He  said  'from  America.' 
He  was  too  delicate  to  say  'from  George  Cannon.' 
It  had  been  a  triumphant  moment  for  him.  And  now, 
as  before  them  all  Hilda  held  him  to  her,  the  delicious 
thought  that  she  had  power  over  him,  that  she  was 
shaping  the  large  contours  of  his  existence,  made  her 
feel  solemn  in  her  bliss.  And  yet  simultaneously  she 
was  reflecting  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  hardness: 
"It's  each  for  himself  in  marriage  after  all,  and  I've 
got  my  own  way."  And  then  she  noticed  the  white- 
ness of  his  shirt-front  under  her  chin,  and  that  re- 
minded her  of  his  mania  for  arranging  his  linen  ac- 
cording to  his  own  ideas  in  his  own  drawer,  and  the 
absurd  tidiness  of  his  linen ;  and  she  wanted  to  laugh. 

"What  a  romance  she  has  made  of  my  life !"  thought 
Edwin,  confused  and  blushing,  as  she  loosed  him.  And 
though  he  looked  round  with  affection  at  the  walls 
which  would  soon  no  longer  be  his,  the  greatness  of  the 
adventure  of  existence  with  this  creature,  to  him  unique, 
and  the  eternal  expectation  of  some  new  ecstasy,  left  no 
room  in  his  heart  for  a  regret. 

He  caught  sight  of  Ingpen  alone  in  a  corner  by  the 
piano,  nervously  stroking  his  silky  beard.  The  mem- 


Page  545 


ory  of  the  secret  woman  in  Ingpenfs 
room  came  back  to  him.   Without  any 
process  of  reasoning,  he  felt  very 
sorry  for  both  of  them,  and  he  was 
aware  of  a  certain  condescension  in 
himself  towards  Ingpen. 


• 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  PINE  OP  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


JAR  29  1938 


JAN    5  1954  LI 


J 

OK  3 


LD 


YB  59376 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


